


S

by kromi



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Self-Destruction, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7196108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kromi/pseuds/kromi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events on Bahryn Agent Kallus finds himself questioning everything he's been and done in life. It's not really defecting when you just leave and decide not to go back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This got out of hand very fast, just look at the wordcount. And whoever even picks up thermodynamic entropy and the heat death of universe (figuratively) as a theme to build a fic upon? This is the result, however. Please heed the tags, this gets very dark before the slowest of burns reaches its end. Also expecting Season 3 to turn half of this into some weird AU.
> 
> Written for my girlfriend who enjoys the same kind of trash that I do. <3

He was supposed to get rid of it. It was just some meaningless piece of some ancient meteorite, nothing special about it except the somewhat eerie glow and the accompanying warmth emanating from it in soft, gentle waves, and he was supposed to throw it down the nearest trash chute and be done with it.

Yet it still sits in his cabin on the shelf where he vaguely recalls placing it and never actually touching it since, where it slowly pulsates its yellowish orange light and the warmth washes across the cabin in pleasant waves, more intense close and barely registrable at the door.

Slowly he stops paying any mind to it, like it's just another piece of furniture, a blinking light on a console, a heating system that actually works on the ship that feels suddenly very cold. It's not just the air, but the people too, the entire atmosphere, and the harder the realization hits, the colder he feels. He's not sure if it's a physical feeling (he's sure it's not fever from some infection: he got a thorough examination in the medbay after his return from the moon and got as clean a bill of health as he could in his state: slight hypothermia, mild signs of frostbite on his fingers and toes and the leg was bad, but nothing rest and proper care wouldn't take care of although the medical officers weren't entirely convinced he could ever walk well without aid and suggested all kinds of cybernetic alternatives, all of which he declined. He'd bite that bullet if the time ever came) or if it's just in his head, but it is disconcerting nevertheless and distracting in all possible ways he can imagine.

It still hurts, his leg, like it's cold all the time, like this frozen spike pierces it sometimes when he walks down a corridor with the cane he got from medbay to help him walk without exerting the injured leg too much. He asks about the cold, but medical officers seem a bit confused and tell him it sounds unusual, but might be that the injury messed up the peripheral bloodflow: they'll look into it, and he goes through a series of bothersome tests and examinations that reveal nothing new.

He gets back to work as quickly as possible – just paperwork, for now – but he's suddenly aware of how other people treat him onboard; how other agents address him over holocomm, and it's all this _coldness_ , efficiency for the sake of something impersonal, all business conducted the same way every time and he feels more like a machine than a man, and slowly the coldness that was mostly in his leg spreads, reaching its tendrils to trap him in the heat death of his self. It's all coming down to an equilibrium of cold, of maximum thermodynamic entropy of nothing, and he imagines that as he sluggishly drags himself down the corridors of the ship, shivering in his mind, back to his own cabin where he rests the cane against the wall next to his bed.

And for the first time ever since the moment he put the meteorite down on the shelf, he recognizes that it's there, and the cold spreads and brings this numbness in its wake when he realizes that the people he considers his comrades: the people he fights with and _for_ think of him as nothing more than a disposable asset. He wasn't important enough for the Empire to make them allocate more resources to continue the search for him: just another ISB agent probably would-be written off as MIA. There was probably someone vying for his place even the very moment he was back on their figurative doorstep and even then nobody paid any attention. Made a mark that Agent Kallus was for whatever reason back – no mention of his ingenuity for surviving and making it back on his own, of course – and after medical check likely ready to continue in the service of the Empire. He remembers Admiral Konstantine not even looking at him, paying his passing respects like he didn't even recognize him, and he surely wasn't gone _that_ long, and he wonders if it has always been that way, he just hasn't noticed out of some self-perceived vanity or sense of importance.

He remembers warmth as something that used to be but is now just as alien as the reason why he's even there, and he reaches out for the meteorite and takes it in his hand, hard but warm, and the first wave of warmth envelops him and purges the frost from the marrow of his bones, makes the ache in his leg stop, dissipates the haze of apathy from his mind. There is a surge of energy crackling like plasma down his spine reactivating nerve endings as it goes and he _experiences_ warmth. He lays down, places the glowing piece of meteorite carefully on his nightstand, like a reassuring nightlight, warmth washing over him in gentle waves, like an ocean made of gold and conductivity.

For a while, everything works again. His leg feels better and he occasionally leaves the cane, walking with only a slight limp but figuring the leg needs the strength if he ever wants to walk properly again without becoming half a droid (funny though that would be since most people still treat him like he is actually a droid who just carries out orders perfectly and effectively without asking questions and it slowly occurs to him that it's the way he's always been treated: there are no people in the Empire, there are only machines). The meteorite is now a nightlight, a beacon of warmth and odd familiarity in a place that is becoming increasingly upsetting and strange, and _cold_ , and he sometimes falls asleep with his hand curled softly over the light and the warmth, and his mind, in sleep, goes to dark, inherently freezing and inhospitable places full of monsters. The dreams are still warmer and brighter and fuller of hope than anything he can recall. He wakes up and disregards the faint memories aside from the warmth that is keeping him sane.

He starts slowly carrying out real missions. Simple recon mostly because he is yet in no condition to do actual combat, with a small squad of Stormtroopers at his disposal to call to his aid if he does need firepower for any reason. He gathers intelligence like he's supposed to, he accomplishes his missions, notices upsettingly the underlying cold tone of 'well done, Agent' without any attempt at recognizing the work that went into capturing that particular piece of information regarding alleged rebel activity in Sullust or the slowly brewing signs of unrelated underground revolution spread over several systems on the far reaches of the Outer Rim.

He's now aware that the cold is something his mind experiences rather than what his body actually does after having asked technicians to turn on the heat in his cabin to whatever maximum was allowed and received a puzzled "but it's already as high as it can go," (without bypassing the limiter, of course) "Agent Kallus, sir", but he has sternly decided not to think about why that is since he is working again and not just being idly ignored aboard the ship. He is still ignored, but he can shrug it off when he can put his mind in work on other, more pressing matters.

When he returns to his cabin, exhausted and out of energy as per usual, there is nary any light. The meteorite on his nightstand is dim, the light pulsing lazily now like the warmth emanating from it does, and never reaches the brightness it used to. It is profoundly distressing, the way that makes him feel, and he makes a dash for the nightstand, grabbing the meteorite and finding it cool, only barely the temperature of his hand. The now-pale yellowish orange flickers lazily between his fingers, doesn't shine through them like before.

He sits on his bed with the meteorite in his hand, and everything slowly comes to a stop again as he finally lays down and drifts off to sleep where no warmth can be found anymore and the frozen cave he dreams of is just dark and full of monsters.

When he wakes the meteorite is just a rock, cold against his fingers, his leg radiates the dull old pain he's pretty sure is only psychosomatic, and there is no light. He puts the rock aside and turns to his other side, laboriously drifting off to sleep again and everything in the universe has come to a standstill, the equilibrium of no heat that could be transferred; the very death of everything.


	2. Two

He isn't defecting, not really. It's not defecting when you just leave and decide not to go back. Or rather he stayed where he was and never went back with the others. The mission was one too much: he still doesn't take part in any fighting that requires more than firing his blaster from cover, but seeing the Stormtroopers, his squad, mow mercilessly down a group of (alien) civilians, including children, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, makes him back off until he's certain no one can see, and then he makes a run for it as fast as his bad leg allows without aid. It's not very fast, but he can hear the blaster fire get distant, his breath catches in his throat and makes his lungs feel like they're on fire – the arid hot atmosphere of the planet does not help and neither does the sand drifting in the air, raised by the dry, lazy wind that seems ever-present – and he is so not recovered enough for anything that requires such athletic shows of force yet, much to his dismay. He is not _used_ to feeling useless and letting the cannon fodder do all the actual work: it's like adding insult to injury. He can be his own muscle. He used to be. Now he has a shitty leg, head full of frost and guilt and doubts of horrific variety, and he does not know what is right and what is wrong anymore, although he is pretty certain what he is doing – right here, right now – is definitely not right.

He ducks into a small gap between rough dirt-colored plaster walls of the primitively constructed buildings – someone's _homes_ , what are they even _doing_ here, really? What does the Empire _gain_ by subjugating these people to their will? He _hates_ these questions he finds himself asking, like he sees everything clearer suddenly and it raises such guilt and the question _why did I never question it before?_ – and stops to catch his breath, leaning his hands to his knees and letting his head slouch forward, drawing deep breaths that rake through his hot-air-dried throat and the dying screams of _children_ make him want to dry heave.

It takes a while, and there has definitely been a search, but he remains hidden between the buildings, hunched out of sight, until he hears the muted roar of his ship's engines and catches a brief glimpse of its bright sublight engines as it flies overhead past the colorful drapery hung between buildings and the large brick-red bridge-like rock formations the town is built underneath to shelter it from sandstorms and other natural phenomena worlds like these tend to exhibit from his experience.

After he's certain the ship has cleared orbit and jumped into hyperspace and there is no way they can make it back until he has secured a ride off this unwelcoming rock, he contacts the ISB director himself, who has already been alerted to the fact that one of his top agents went MIA during a routine mission ( _what_ exactly is routinely about slaughtering unarmed civilians and children, he wonders). He explains drily that _actually_ he went AWOL and this is his official note of resignation, done in person as a show of goodwill.

The Director ignores the goodwill and warns him that deserting and betraying the Empire will not bode well even for a high-ranking Agent like him, and he tells the Director that the Empire is free to try to catch him: surely they will suddenly find the wherewithal to sweep one system after another for someone suspected of treason when they did not bother to do that when the same person was only thought to have gone missing and maybe in need of help: unfortunate collateral damage, no matter if the person in question was a decorated and respected loyal member of the Empire. The silence over the comm tells him more than any words could, and he cuts the transmission.

It's not exactly betrayal. He isn't going to run to anyone to sell the information he has – and oh, he has _lots of it_ , lots of highly classified information he could make a fortune out of, make rebels gain an upper hand in plenty of remote systems – because he is rather certain he is on top of the rebels' wanted list and if they caught him his fate wouldn't be that much different from how the Empire would treat him. And if highly classified information of fleet positions and movement, detailed descriptions of Imperial personnel structure and dirt on most of the highest ranking officers; locations of sleeper agents, factories and Kuat Drive shipyards; prison blueprints and specs of resource management… if all that suddenly started pouring in rebels would want to know _where_ it is coming from, and they would go to the depths of a Sarlacc pit to find out who exactly is providing the information in case it's all a well-constructed trap or some other Imperial shenanigans _he_ or any other ISB agent worth their salt would pull off. He knows rebels well enough: that they, _too_ , would do anything to triumph over their enemy – this is war, after all – and they're not all saviors and saints for the downtrodden like many paint them to be and how rebels themselves would like to view themselves. Also he knows some of them are particularly _adamant_ in succeeding in whatever they attempt.

His occupation makes leaving however easy and rather effortless: he knows where exactly the Empire has eyes; knows planets under Empire rule and those likely to fall under it shortly. He knows outposts, trade routes – even the ones that are not officially sanctioned, but perish the thought that the Empire would use illegitimate trade as a resource – and he knows about quite a few rebel cells and their approximate areas of operation so he can stay away from them as well. He can find a planet, somewhere in the Outer Rim, where there is nothing the Empire would want, and as long as the Empire is not a threat, rebels will not interfere. He can hide, lay low, and live as a nobody and regret his entire existence, always cold even in the sweltering heat of worlds like these. The cold is in the eyes of the people, in the disapproval and disgust, in their anger and thirst for vengeance or worse yet the complete indifference; it's in the trigger-pull of a Stormtrooper's regulation blaster and how the 'just following orders' will absolve them – him – of atrocities as if it's a good excuse and there is no involvement of free will. He's always done what he knows he has had to do, but he understands now that it has only made him a monster even if someone else is holding the leash.

He does not want that anymore. He does not want the cold, but he's not sure if he can ever feel warm again. The marrow of his bones has been replaced with ice and his heart pumps liquid helium into his veins and the hotness of the planet is proving him right.

He moves the cold meteorite he's taken to keeping with him out of his breast pocket to a pocket in his trousers and then he strips his helmet and his armor and uniform jacket, all of it too much of a tell-tale sign of his now-former allegiance, abandons them there in the sand. He keeps the bo-rifle strapped to his back: that he won't give up, and it isn't a sign of an Imperial anyway. He ducks out of his hiding place and heads, with as long steps as his crap leg can carry, towards the spaceport. He has the credits, he can find someone to smuggle him off the planet and to whatever miserable rock will serve as his next hiding place until he can figure out the exact world where no one will come looking.

And he is not defecting. He is just making a conscious choice to stop living a life that does not give him the satisfaction it used to. By leaving the Empire he leaves nothing behind, except hopefully the cold. The guilt he cannot escape and is not attempting to, and what comes to rebels he feels no different about them than he did before this all started. No one really knows what's good for the galaxy, not even him, but he is certain that what is currently going on definitely is not good for anyone.

He gets a ride to Nar Shaddaa. It is not what he was planning because the Empire is a presence despite Nar Shaddaa being smack dab in the middle of Hutt space (they have their eyes on the cartels because of their continuing criminal activities) but maybe Nar Shaddaa is at least chaotic enough to make disappearing easy.


	3. Three

He spends a couple of days on Nar Shaddaa contemplating his next move, hanging out in cantinas drinking idly the swill they serve and wearing the disguise of a bounty hunter: something that won't stand out in the least in the rabble, and the face-covering helmet helps him escape notice aside from those who come to him wanting to hire him for whatever lousy business they have in mind. He declines and he has had to run from a shoot-out at least once or twice, painfully aware how his Imperial regulation blaster might draw unwanted attention, but the bo-rifle would do much more than that and he keeps it strapped securely to his back, wrapped in cloth and hidden from curious eyes. He trades his blaster for a less conspicuous one, fully aware that the trader is trying to pull a fast one, demanding extra credits in exchange for the wear and tear his actually perfect-condition blaster supposedly has, and he pays just because he wants to get it over with and hide his Imperial trail as well as possible. He knows that his time on Nar Shaddaa runs even shorter: the trader eyes him suspiciously and although it has got to be completely normal to trade Imperial weaponry, scavenged from ravaged battlefields or wrestled from the hands of a dead Stormtrooper, the trader might as well be contacting the local troops the moment he has left.

He still has his eyes set on Outer Rim but basically he has to make a choice between something the Empire might be checking out on their resource runs or while trying to chart rebel movements, and something that has the high possibility of rebel activity already going on beneath the metaphorical surface. He's not sure if he's actually ready to live on a completely deserted planet without any settlements around. And then there's the problem of finding someone to _take him there_. Trade to as far to the Outer Rim as he wants to go is not exactly lucrative so traders and smugglers at this part of the galaxy rarely operate that way, commercial does not travel anywhere near because no one goes there to do anything legitimate anyway, and he definitely does not have the credits to either buy a ship or pay anyone enough to make the journey worthwhile, especially since the Empire went and froze his assets, and he does not have a lot left after hitching the ride to Nar Shaddaa and decking himself in bounty hunter gear.

He could get a fortune for the bo-rifle if he found the right buyer. It would not be difficult on Nar Shaddaa where the rich do like to boast their fortune and wielding or even displaying a weapon near-extinct with the prestige it comes with would make anyone stand out and earn the jealousy of competitors moon-wide.

But that is the only thing he is not willing to trade, not for all the credits in the galaxy. That, and the now-cold piece of meteorite – which in itself could be immeasurably valuable because of its curious properties, he doesn't know – in his breast pocket.

He briefly considers Coruscant but abandons that line of thinking almost instantly. He has no home: thinking he could go back to one is ludicrous and at this point nostalgic for all the wrong reasons and besides Coruscant is the Imperial homeworld: attempting to live at their doorstep could be a move unexpected enough to make him invisible for a while, but it would be only a matter of time someone took notice.

Around his third drink a group of Stormtroopers enter, which instantly causes the band playing to go silent for a second but resume their song quickly to not rouse panic immediately, and although he's aware that his whole body goes stiff from the sudden surge of adrenaline, he remains calm and sips at his foul drink. From the corner of his eye he sees the Sergeant stop to ask someone something, the someone points at his general direction and his brain goes on escape-plan overdrive just as a group of people in a table behind him pull out their weapons and start shooting. This makes the Stormtroopers near the entrance duck for cover, more tougher-looking patrons draw their own weapons, the dancers (those who did not pull weapons out of who-knows-where) run for cover screaming, the band abandon their instruments, and it all makes way for general and beautiful cantina-wide chaos. Good old Nar Shaddaa.

He finishes his drink, hops down from the stool and, trying to hide the limp that has gotten worse because of the ever-present chill, like his whole leg is frozen and difficult to move, heads for the back entrance along with other panicked patrons while the firefight behind his back continues. He has no idea if they were there for him and the panicked trigger-happy reaction from whatever criminals had been sitting right next to him turned out to be his saving grace, but he finds he doesn't care in the least as he breaks into a run when he's clear of the cantina.

Off Nar Shaddaa.

Now.

He'll stowaway on the next outbound ship if there's nothing else: maybe someone wants to hire a bodyguard, whatever: he makes it to the spaceport only to find out there's another firefight going on, and another squad of Stormtroopers stationed near – oh, _fuck no_. He ducks behind crates piled near the entrance and gets out his blaster.

From there on out it's easy to recognize the very unmistakable flashes of lightsabers, the reflected blaster bolts, the way too loud _'How did they know we were here?!'_ shouted across the spacious hall and the calmer but irritated _'Well maybe_ someone _should have thought about that before drawing his weapon in the middle of the market'_ and the rest of the definitely on-going inane squabbling gets lost in the noises from the firefight and sharp crackling of lightsabers.

While he's still contemplating what exactly to do in this particular worst case scenario – he sees another squad of Stormtroopers enter the way he came in and seal off the entrance – a blaster bolt whistles past close enough to scratch his helmet and make his ears ring and he quickly removes the helmet, only to notice that _the girl_ , the Mandalorian, is right across from him on the other side, attaching – if he knows her at all – explosives to the crates there to block the reinforcements from entering, and there is an awkward second when he stares at her, helmet in hands with his blaster foolishly set aside, and she stares at him through the colorfully decorated Mandalorian helmet, and in the end he's too slow to dodge and she's too fast to fire, the blaster stun round hitting him squarely in the chest.


	4. Four

He comes to in a dark, rather cramped little space, hands and legs tied, his leg more painful than it's been in weeks because it's twisted weirdly due to the very tight bindings – plastic-wrapped electric wire, _really?_ – and instantly hears faint voices coming through the walls or the door or the maintenance and air-conditioning vents he knows the ship has to be riddled with if he can remember anything of the short personal introductory course he took about this particular class of light freighters around the time he started clashing regularly with its troublesome crew.

"You don't find _anything_ strange about the way we ran into him?"

"What strange is there, we got ambushed, he was there right before the reinforcements arrived, clearly having taken point. He _always_ takes point!"

"Ezra, you're not looking at the entire picture."

"What more could there possibly be to look at! Ask Sabine, she saw the reinforcements that followed him!"

"Yeah, he was there right next to the entrance before the reinforcements arrived the same way and I set the charges. A blaster bolt one of _you_ knuckleheads likely reflected grazed his helmet so he took it off, which is when I noticed him hunched there behind the other stack of crates."

"Had to be Kanan, he's— _ow!_ Stop _doing that!"_

"I'll stop when you stop acting like even more of a brat than you actually are. But back to the matter: it was not the... usual helmet he wears? The one that literally looks like a bucket he's stuffed his head into? That's what you said."

_It is_ not _a bucket! It is a very finely-crafted piece of armor that has better protection against both ballistic and plasma-based weaponry than the lousy miserable piece of shit helmet I was forced to wear._ Mine _would have never made my ears ring, I would have never had to take it off, and it wouldn't have blocked half of my field of view and I would have noticed_ that damned girl _before it was too late_.

"No, it wasn't. It was just as ugly though."

_On the ugliness of that thing I think we can all agree._

The astromech lets out a long series of derisive beeps, the kid laughs gleefully, there's a soft smacking sound and a half-offended little _'ow'_ and a crossly muttered _'how can he keep scoring hits with that thing over his eyes?'_ to which the dry reply is _'I'm blind, not deaf, Ezra'_ and although he's heard them all by now one voice in particular is still missing.

"And that raises a curious question, don't you all agree? Why would he be on Nar Shaddaa dressed like a common bounty hunter?"

"To throw us off! He's an agent and stuff, isn't that what they do! And it was _Nar Shaddaa_ , you're, like, answering your own questions! Am I _the only one_ with any brain here? Why aren't we throwing him out of the airlock already?!"

"You are the only one with a half-functioning one. There is more to this than it would seem. Hera, go scan all Imperial frequencies you dare and let Chopper take care of the rest. Sabine, find out what went down on Nar Shaddaa, you have your bounty hunter connections. Ezra, _don't go anywhere near him, I am_ not _kidding,_ and Zeb, see to it that he isn't up to anything. I think we can all agree that he's much too dangerous to keep onboard for long."

"Gotcha."

The voices die out, he hears the astromech complain in low miserable beeps and the Twi'lek pilot telling it to cheer up a little; the little kid, the great Jabba the Hutt, apparently follows his adamantly silent master whining about this or that, and then there's silence aside from the soft hum of oxygen circulation and the ship's hyperdrive engines (he must be near aft, the engines should be almost silent) and a series of weird tiny noises he would personally look into immediately because those are _not_ normal and how this band of particularly irritating misfits keep flying this giant hunk of junk without fearing it will just tear itself apart at some point without warning is beyond his understanding.

He is not cold however, but with that comes the realization that he does not have the meteorite against his chest anymore and he panics against reason. It's been just this cool weight against his chest, somehow calming although there is no warmth or light anymore and it is literally nothing but a rock, but it being missing is just as profoundly distressing as it was to find out it was losing its powers in the first place. He understands the rebels must have taken it along with all his weaponry, even the well-hidden ones, and communication devices and basically everything he had on him that he was not literally _wearing_. He shakes off the distressing feeling and tries to relax, which is difficult for a number of reasons.

He shifts a little, his shoulder pressing nastily against some sharp edge behind his back and tries to make out his surroundings. Must be some sort of small storage compartment, the equivalent of a maintenance closet: filled with crates and all kinds of assorted crap, but it's difficult to see in the near-darkness with just some small lights in the ceiling informing him that artificial gravity is on and the oxygen levels are nominal, and all other things he assumes every nook and cranny of this ship has to detect oxygen leaks and to better pinpoint possible hardware or equipment failure. Those lights are really not much in the way of lighting, just these small blips of green and yellow and blue.

A thought crosses his mind: about as profoundly distressing as the meteorite and it being missing, but for very different reasons.

"You're out there, right?" he says out loud, immediately scowling in deep disapproval at the way his voice sounds, rough and dry and insecure, and he has to clear his throat to get anything out at all.

For a long while there is silence and he already lets out a small sigh of relief that maybe he wasn't there to hear in the first place and he can still maintain some sort of air of superiority despite the circumstances when the answer comes, gruff and low through the door, loud enough to be right next to it.

"Yeah."

Well, it's not like he has any chance of maintaining an air of superiority with _him_ around anyway.

"Can you tell me what they're saying?"

"'fraid not, mate," comes the answer and after another grueling silence the door opens, blinding him briefly as the bright lights from the corridor penetrate the small storage compartment he's shoved into, filtered past the large figure blocking most of the doorway, and Zeb steps over his legs, the door behind him sliding shut and shrouding everything in familiar darkness again. He plops down heavily to sit on a metal crate at the far end of the compartment, which is not far at all and actually way too close for comfort. The meteorite, dark and cold, is then tossed on his lap, where it sits because he can't reach for it with his hands tied behind his back.

"You kept it, huh?"

Of course he has to ask the _one question_ there is no good answer to, so Kallus just says "yes" and remains quiet, staring at the rock on his lap, suddenly angry at its betrayal. He wonders if he would be in _this_ particular mess right now if the meteorite was still full of light, still warm, still the reason he could bear the coldness in the world around him.

"Can I get my bo-rifle back as well?" he asks drily and glances at his now-cellmate.

Zeb chuckles, low in his throat, and the slight movement in the dark probably means he's shaking his head. "Yeah, sorry, no way."

Another silence falls, he's slowly becoming once again particularly aware of the fact that Lasats do _not_ smell good and how it was a blessing on that damned cold moon that the chill quickly robbed him of the sense of smell as well. No cold to numb his senses now and the small compartment clearly has inadequate air filters. He can even smell the dust. Do these people _never_ clean their decrepit ship?

"You're pretty pricey for our commander," Zeb starts talking suddenly, in an off-handed sort of voice. "They haven't had their hands on a single ISB agent before, your kind is all damned slippery bastards."

"Thank you."

"Not exactly a compliment, but whatever. Either you part with the information you're sure to have willingly, or I suppose they have their ways of extracting it in any case."

"Funny how much you remind the Empire when it comes to these things," Kallus notes in the same dry, sardonic tone he knows he can keep exactly that and nothing else.

"Funny how war works," Zeb retorts and Kallus keeps forgetting that he might look like a dumb brute but is everything but. Brute, sure; impulsive, definitely; but very far from dumb.

"What then?"

"Damned if I know. How's your leg?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"The leg," Zeb says slowly as if that was the reason Kallus had asked for clarification. "How is it?"

"If you must know it hurts like hell," he replies.

Zeb mutters that catch-all curse of his and something about how he shouldn't have let the kids do this shit and Kallus sees him move in the dark and suddenly he's right next to him kneeling on the floor and cutting through the electric wire tying his legs together. He sees his chance like it's literally a thing that has happened before, and when his legs are free he attempts to fold his knee, the good one, with enough force behind it to hit Zeb right in the jaw and knock him unconscious, but half-way through the move a large hand closes in around his shin and he feels the claws sting just a bit through his trousers, the movement halted to a perfect stop. The other hand lands on his injured leg, but a lot gentler: no grip, no claws, just soft finger pads.

"Don't," Zeb says, sounding somehow tired as he forces the leg back down and keeps his hand tight around the shin to stop him from trying to execute another move like that again and whatever he does next Kallus does not actually pay any attention to because he's suddenly aware of the warmth, like the meteorite is right against his leg, the waves washing away the phantom pain.

"—medicine?"

He's shaken out of his thoughts and he looks at Zeb, his silhouette and green eyes only just visible in the darkness, questioning with the usual gruff irritation in his voice, and he has to say: "Excuse me?"

"Do you need medicine for it? It doesn't seem badly swollen but if it hurts – damn kids tied it too tight, didn't know about the injury – I can get you something to curb the pain."

"No," he finds himself saying. His legs are tied again, but much looser and the wire isn't digging quite as painfully into his leg as it was before. He doesn't think he'd be able to squirm free, though, despite the loosened restraints.

"You sure?"

"No."

Now Zeb's eyes are closed and there is definite irritation to his voice _._ "So do you want something or not?"

"Yes," Kallus replies and then nods towards the meteorite on his lap. "C-can you try to find out something about it? What it is, what it _was,_ and why isn't it—"

"Glowing and warm anymore?" Zeb nods. "Yeah, sure, I guess I can ask." He takes the meteorite back and, after a second, his hand trailing gently off the injured leg, stands back up. He looks down at Kallus, shoving the meteorite into one of his many pockets. "I'm your designated guardsman, so just yell if you need anything."

"Loosening the ties around my wrists would be out of question, I presume?"

Zeb laughs again, "Keep dreaming, bucko," and steps over Kallus' legs, opens the door – blindness, again – and closes it, leaving him alone in the miserable darkness of the storage compartment. Only after a while he realizes his leg is still sort of warm, the tendrils of tentative warmth reaching up to wrap him in the sort of comfortable state of being he hasn't experienced since the meteorite stopped working, and thankfully it lulls him quickly into sleep so that he doesn't have to think too hard about what it all means.


	5. Five

He wakes up to bright lights and cracks open an eye to see Zeb step over his legs again and sit down on the crate at the other end of the compartment before they're shrouded in darkness again. He keeps squinting still, the brief period of light having made the darkness seem even deeper. He sees Zeb lean closer and place a tray on his lap and the smell of dust and Lasat and recycled oxygen is overridden by the smell of food, delicious probably only because he finds himself almost ravenous.

"Wouldn't be nice of you to starve before we get you to our leaders," Zeb says.

"So which is it?" he asks, keeping the dry tone a constant. "Are you going to feed me or trust me enough to let my hands free?"

Zeb harrumphs in his gruff manner and there's suddenly light as he activates his own bo-rifle, the purple glow making the compartment look more eerie than it did when it was dark. There's the warning and the implied threat and he supposes he can eat on his own. He can see Zeb's face properly now in the purple crackling light and finds out he can't actually face him.

"It's not like I could escape a ship in the middle of a hyperjump," he says, tiredness trickling through the dryness.

"You did try before," Zeb replies with a shrug, referring to that ill-advised attempt at trying to knee Zeb unconscious. He knows now it was pure instinct and had nothing to do with having a subsequent plan. "I bet there's plenty of havoc your kind could wreak." Zeb leans closer and cuts the electric wire tying his hands.

" _'My kind?'_ " he asks curiously, rolling his tired, seized-up wrists before he helps himself to the food.

"Imperial agents," Zeb replies and much to his surprise the usual derisiveness does not accompany the words, like he almost says it with some modicum of _respect_.

He pauses for a second, trying to parse the lack of what he had expected to hear, and then resumes eating, hoping his designated guardsman wouldn't notice the weird hesitation there. Not dumb, but not _that_ attentive either. "You think I would?" he asks, aiming for dry again. "Wreak havoc?"

"Well, if _I_ were in your position, definitely, yeah," Zeb replies without hesitation and props the activated rifle better on his thighs. "Listen, I have my reasons to trust you and even respect you to a point, but to the rest you're nothing but an Imperial, a cog in the machine that has ruined their lives a thousand times over. They don't trust you and I don't blame 'em."

He stays quiet because he knows all this: he doesn't blame any of them either. He has all their backgrounds committed to memory, how the kid lost his family, and everyone knows how badly the war has ravaged Ryloth ever since the Clone Wars, and how the Academies can turn out to be unsuitable and even traumatizing to those who are not as easy to indoctrinate as your regular Stormtrooper, and Order 66… and the only person onboard who trusts him is someone whose entire race was wiped out by the Empire and _he_ even played a part in it personally. He told himself he'd live with the guilt, but it turns out to be a very _, very_ heavy burden to bear, especially when someone is still willing, if not to forgive then at least to _understand,_ and somehow that is _worse_.

He's stopped eating and Zeb has taken notice.

"You left 'em, didn't you?"

"If you are asking if I'm still with the Empire the answer is no," he replies, the cold seeping into his voice.

He hears the curse, again, under Zeb's breath, sees him run a hand along his scalp. "Y'know that could change things," he says, sounding… hopeful?

"You know as well as I do that it doesn't," Kallus replies. "To your people, and I'm speaking of rebels, I am, like you said, a cog in the machine that has ruined their lives. And they are right. Whether or not I am with the Empire anymore does not matter, but no one will suffer because of the things I know." He looks at Zeb, locks eyes with him in the purple glow of the weapon despite the weird feeling it makes grow inside him, and makes his intent clear. "If that means your people will torture me, let them, and whatever comes after I'll deal with it. But I will _not_ betray anyone."

Zeb's strong brow furrows, his hackles rising and his ears draw back low against his head. Like a _cat's_. "You're an idiot," he says. "You could save lives. Do the _right thing_ for once."

" _Your_ lives, very likely at the cost of Imperial ones. What makes your people more important than Imperial civilians? You said it yourself: _funny how war works_. I have the rather enlightening viewpoint of someone who is now an outsider, but do _you_ really think, objectively, that one side is definitely good and one is evil? Do you claim that your people have _never_ killed civilians just to one-up the Empire?"

"So suddenly you know better than everyone else?"

"Suddenly I just have a point of view I have not considered before," he replies, and, having lost his appetite, hands the tray back to Zeb, foregoing the obvious chance of trying to nab the utensils to use as weapons later. He thinks his heart wouldn't really be in any attempt to escape: if the universe has decided he'll die or face the life of imprisonment in the hands of the rebels, then be it. It doesn't sound that bad of an alternative to living in exile on some remote forsaken world far out in the Outer Rim, and at least the Empire wouldn't get the satisfaction to enact some kind of _retribution_ for his perceived defection. "I refuse to pick a side in this war now that I have the actual freedom to choose."

Zeb takes the tray and looks unhappy, ears still folded low. "That is rich," he says, derisively," that _you_ , out of all people, would say something like that. What, are you trying to atone for all the shit you've done? Are you gonna pull apologies outta your ass next? Do you actually _not_ realize you've always had the freedom of choice, you've just chosen to go down the asshole path every time?"

He decides not to comment on the insults and closes his eyes, feeling sort of serene to get his thoughts out in the open. "I know I've done reprehensible things that I can never make up for and no amount of apologies is going to bring the kid's parents back or restore the Jedi Order or… unmake the massacre on Lasan… and maybe I've made poor choices that I, at the time, felt were the right ones to make. And for all the evil the Empire has done I do not believe that your collective of rebel cells, in their current manifestation, would make much of a difference were the parts reversed. So no, I am not going to give anything to you, nor am I going to aid the Empire anymore, and I'll deal with the guilt one day at a time."

"You're a fucking coward is what you are," Zeb almost rumbles. "You've done war for, how long? Twenty, twenty-five years? How early do they put you kids into those miserable Academies? And now you decide to run away from the chance of actually being able to make a difference. I haven't heard more cowardly bullshit in my _life_ and believe me plenty of your people turn out to spout out that exact fucking variety when they realize I'm about to tear out their spine."

"Probably. Stop using 'you' in plural, I'm not an Imperial anymore."

"It hardly makes a difference!" Zeb continues in his outraged rumble, and he doesn't understand why Zeb _is_ so upset in the first place: if anything, he figured Zeb would be _glad_ that he's not with the Empire anymore and that he's decided to not involve any civilians in this – fine, he'll say it – _asinine_ war. "What the fuck's happened to you?"

_The cold, the lack of light, and energy, and movement, the maximum entropy of being wholly wrong. The absolute zero in the marrow of his bones, his heart, his mind; the incapability to bring himself to_ care _anymore and the realization that everything,_ everything _in his life is just as cold and distant, the human life equivalent of thermodynamic equilibrium._

He shrugs and then admits, in a quieter voice, something that is only half true, yet more than he would be comfortable sharing with _anyone else:_ "I stopped caring."

Saying it out loud feels like he just peeled off whatever protective self-deceiving layer he's wrapped himself in and uncharacteristically splayed open something very vulnerable, and Zeb's reaction reflects exactly what he's feeling: embarrassment and confusion followed by shock and… alright, the grim determination Zeb settles into with his ears perking up attentively is something he did not expect.

" _Karabast_ ," Zeb mutters, stands up and then leans down to first cut the wire around Kallus' ankles and then pull him up on his feet by the arm. Kallus does not realize to resist until they're out of the ship, his eyes used to the light again, and they're not actually in space but planetside somewhere (he didn't pay attention to the quiet of the engines, he's used to quiet on Imperial ships after all), no idea where, on some miserably deserted spaceport with a lonely old astromech rolling across the width of it. That's when he finally tears his arm free and demands to know what's going on, but instead of getting answers he just ends up standing there when Zeb leaves to go back inside the ship. He hasn't moved an inch when Zeb returns with his gear: his bo-rifle still wrapped in cloth, a blaster that is not the one he got back on Nar Shaddaa, and what he recognizes must be everything he had on him, which is not much. Zeb shoves it all against his chest, that same grim determination on his face.

"Does it matter to you where you are?" he asks.

"No," Kallus replies, because he thinks it doesn't, and the fact that he doesn't recognize the place is good enough.

"Good. We're deep in the Outer Rim," Zeb tells him. "Now go. They'll be back soon, but if you take the left—" he gestures towards the open air and the rather unwelcoming-looking desolate yellow desert spreading out left of the spaceport, "—you can get out without them catching a glimpse. I can make up something, they know you're cunning and resourceful."

"Why?" Kallus manages.

Zeb grabs his shoulders, the touch acting as a conductor for the kind of bone-deep warmth that he imagines will keep him warm for days and his heart thumps uncomfortably in his chest, once, twice, before settling back to its normal rhythm. "Whatever the heck you think you deserve, you… don't. So just go and atone or whatever and live your life free of this damned strife with your stupid-ass guilt as your companion."

"Why are you doing this?" he asks again although the answer was right there, but he's still baffled by these things that are happening and the determination on Zeb's face. This person should _hate_ him. And then he remembers: "My meteorite."

Zeb sticks his hand into one of his pockets and places the cold, lightless rock on top of all the stuff on his arms. "There," he says, as if doing that had been somehow very troublesome. "Now _please_ go and don't make me beg."

"That would be hilarious, though," Kallus manages.

Zeb almost growls, ears dangerously low against his head. "They will be here any minute and you will not get another chance, do you _really_ wanna waste that just to see me grovel? Because I'll do it. This way at least you'll live whatever the hell kind of life you want, because mate, your head is seriously messed up and I don't know what the hell happened to you, but you don't deserve whatever our leaders will do with you once they get or don't get what they want out of you."

He locks eyes with Zeb, slowly recovering from the shock of what is going on, and then tightens his hold of all the things Zeb shoved unceremoniously to his arms. He nods.

Zeb relaxes visibly, broad shoulders relaxing. "You weren't supposed to run into us in the first place. And… take care of yourself even if… _karabast_ , even if there's nothing else you can do."

He isn't sure about that, or any of this, but ne nods again, at a loss for words, and then just makes it towards the desert at their left, still limping, and only when his boots touch the sand he realizes he never thanked Zeb and turns around only to see there is no Zeb anymore on the loading ramp to the _Ghost_. Very briefly he feels cold despite what looks like very merciless desert sun outside the spaceport, but then he remembers hands on his shoulders, touch on his leg, _take care of yourself,_ and the warmth is back, and there are many a thing he wants to thank Zeb for, but realizes it is now too late for that and turns back around, continuing his slow advance into the desert and towards what seems like a small settlement some ways off the spaceport.


	6. Six

The good thing is that he doesn't really look like an Imperial anymore, so the coldness in the local people's eyes is just the regular kind of mistrust towards a stranger and not the unadulterated hate towards a suitable proxy for whatever horrible things they've suffered because of the Empire. He explains his lack of knowledge of his current whereabouts with having stowed away on some freighter that just stopped by, and learns he's on some very distant world in a very distant system he thinks he can only somewhat point out on a star chart, which immediately begs the question of what the crew of _Ghost_ was doing there in the first place, assuming they were initially in a hurry to drop him off on whatever world or asteroid or orbit the cell of their leaders currently inhabit. Maybe they are even deeper in the Outer Rim and closer to Wild Space or Unknown Regions to escape Imperial notice more easily, although it has got to be an asinine move resource-wise. They don't exactly hold any kind of dominion over trade routes and if they want to start stealing victories from Empire they need resources and a proper fleet, not small squadron pinpoint strikes against lone Star Destroyers. If rebels consider those victories, they're fools: by the time they whittle down a Star Destroyer, another one pops right out of one of the Empire's Kuat Drive shipyards.

He finds it annoying he keeps thinking about these things that don't matter to him anymore, and he promptly decides to stop. Instead he gets to know the settlement, bearing the whips and scorns in the eyes of the locals as he goes. He purchases food and water with what little credits he has left, seeks out work and finds out it comes down to two choices: either work in the refinery for fuel or scavenge and then trade. He has no idea how to do either of those things: the refinery, he finds out, is one in only the likely broadest sense of the word and clearly constructed only because fuel is the only thing that _will_ make ships stop by and in turn make scavenging the only other lucrative occupation. The raw fuel itself is pumped from the soil: the concentrations are apparently small, or he figures _small enough_ to make the Empire not bother. There are some farms as well, but those are staffed and apparently owned by what the locals consider the most fortunate folk around. The few scavengers who do not pretend that they don't speak Basic tell him that the sand hides old sunken cities, the skeletons of old starships, all kinds of things, and they laugh at him that a successful scavenging trip will take a week at least, and he will never survive without proper gear or a map or the accumulated knowledge of what exactly is out there. Unsurprisingly no one wants to take a first-timer with them either, although he would be perfectly prepared and not exactly helpless at whatever the desert or ancient ruins might throw at him, but unfortunately he really can't go around telling everyone about his extensive training, so he pretends that he doesn't know anything and keeps the bo-rifle just this mysterious cloth-wrapped bundle strapped to his back.

So, once again, he ends up sitting in the cantina, drinking swill that is indefinitely worse than anything he has ever tasted, and the cold seeps in again despite the meteorite being stashed safely in the breast pocket of his jacket, and the memory of strong hands on his shoulders and eyes that did not meet his with presumptions or willful ignorance.

The night comes and he has no place to go so he curls up in all clothing he owns and some patched-up sheet he stole from a clothesline – look at him, becoming a thief, stealing bed linen – wrapped around him in some backyard he perceives as somewhat sheltered and safe. He's got his hand on his blaster, the bo-rifle securely under him and other hand around the meteorite, and maybe no one will try to rob and kill him out here at least. He misses the tiny storage compartment on the _Ghost_ and regrets letting the stupid Lasat do this bullshit noble thing and let him go free. He is cold, miserable and without a plan, and although this was _sort of_ what he had been planning from Nar Shaddaa, it's not the way he had planned it would _actually go_. He would have secured a bunch of things first: earned some credits to soften the figurative landing and made sure he could survive out there and not end up thrown onto an unknown world without any other plan than _'make do'_. He also thinks he would have preferred the combined hate of the _Ghost_ 's crew to this crushing loneliness.

Maybe, _maybe,_ he will feel better about it in the morning, he thinks before the universe finally allows him sleep.

He doesn't. He wakes up to spaceship engines overhead, the Imperial ship a blood-stilling sight, and he does not know what to do. The locals thankfully don't seem to take kindly to the Empire showing up uninvited so everyone has their weapons out when a surprisingly kindly old scavenger lets him borrow her binoculars and he can take a closer look at the spaceport, confirming at least two squads of Stormtroopers and an Agent he does not recognize. He gives the scavenger her binoculars back, actually unstraps the bo-rifle from his back and heads to the other end of the small settlement.

They are not here for him: there is _no way_ they could have tracked him down here in such a short time, so they must be there because of _Ghost_ 's visit or some really, _really_ unfortunate coincidence. The _Ghost_ is a high-priority target and rarely lives up to its name except being irritatingly good at disappearing after it has been found, but _finding it_ has never been a problem. They're lousy at sweeping for tracking devices: he should know, he's hidden his fair share of those on the ship's underbelly.

If the world he's on is a home to an active rebel cell and the _Ghost_ did not stop just to fuel their ship, that idiot Lasat just threw him to the wolves.

He briefly contemplates escaping into the desert, but there is the danger that he will get lost and that the Imperials will pay special attention to someone making a run for it and track him down. It would look very suspicious. He could try to hide, but if the Empire is there to flush out rebels, they will search the town. If a firefight breaks out he doubts the settlement could survive: against two squads of Stormtroopers and an Agent some old scavengers and a handful of refinery-workers do not stand much of a chance, despite them having the tactical advantage of having quite a clear shot at the spaceport while the Imperials need to move in wide open space to reach the settlement in the first place. Unless they brought vehicles.

Which they of course did and without even realizing it he mutters Zeb's dumb catch-it-all curse under his breath.

There is no firefight, at least: the locals make sure the Stormtroopers know that they're armed and do not like this turn of events, but they do not turn immediately hostile, and the Stormtroopers do not come in guns blazing either. He got a scarf from one of the scavengers and has it pulled over most of his face and he's wrapped the bo-rifle in cloth again and strapped it to his back and he just sits outside the cantina pretending to be cleaning the blaster that probably belonged to someone of the _Ghost_ 's crew, and side-eyes the Stormtroopers like everyone else, trying to look like he's just one of the locals, mean-mugging these dirty Imperials suddenly showing up on his turf.

It all goes to hell pretty fast. The Agent enters the cantina with a couple of Stormtroopers and after they exit some time later he feels his arms grabbed, blaster yanked away, and scarf torn off his face and he's staring at the smug-looking Agent who has his hands behind his back, giving him a once-over.

"Agent Kallus, what a _pleasant_ surprise," he says in the kind of voice Kallus remembers as the exact one he used in these kind of situations.

"Wish I could say the same, Agent," he replies.

"I had no idea you would be so quick to conspire with the rebels despite what you allegedly told the Director," the Agent continues while the Stormtroopers take his bo-rifle, and that just makes him angry beyond reason, and since the rest of the two squads are sweeping the town further away and the Agent is, for the time being, unarmed, Kallus quickly elbows the other Stormtrooper hard in the midriff, knowing the blow will put the trooper momentarily off balance and let go of him, and at the same time he grabs the bo-rifle, knocks the butt of it hard up against the jaw of the Stormtrooper holding it, then swings it quickly to the other side to knock down the Stormtrooper that had only stumbled back, and activates it to stop the Agent from reaching for his blaster, the crackling yellow plasma tearing the cloth out of its way.

The smug look is gone from the Agent's face and he only has the time to shout out a warning before Kallus silences him for good. That makes all hell break loose. The locals don't take kindly to him starting trouble, the Stormtroopers definitely don't take kindly to someone killing the person in charge, and suddenly Kallus is running and ducking behind corners, trying to avoid blaster fire from all directions. Some locals seem to take advantage of the chaos and a couple of Stormtroopers fall from shots that could have been meant for him, which makes the Stormtroopers turn to the locals and gives him time to think.

The spaceport. It's unlikely they left their ship unguarded and the sounds of blaster fire will have definitely made whoever was left there vigilant, but it's his best chance. If he stays in the settlement he is dead. The problem is still the wide strip of completely coverless desert between the settlement and the spaceport, and one of the Stormtroopers' speeders already lies in a pile of slag, having been blown to hell, and since the trooper guarding the other one is using it as cover it won't last long in the crossfire either.

He's still sitting there behind a building thinking, carelessly unaware of his surroundings, when there's a sharp kick to his face, he feels his nose break and when he turns to look, having fallen to the ground while still clutching the bo-rifle, a Stormtrooper stands next to him, blaster trained at him.

"Drop the weapon," he commands.

Instead he activates it and attempts a low stab, but the trooper fires, the bolt grazing his right forearm and makes him drop the bo-rifle, a sharp painful hiss escaping his – he now realizes – parched mouth. He tastes copper, the unmistakable tang of blood trickling into his nasal cavity and down his throat. There is the slowly widening dark wet spot on the sleeve of his forearm now as well, the burn of it uncomfortable but not unbearable.

"Not at your best, Agent, it seems," the trooper says, steps right on his injured leg and makes him actually scream, much to his embarrassment (but it _hurts_ , the freeze suddenly a violent burn, and he can _feel_ the cracking of bones). He leans down to pick up the bo-rifle, all the while keeping his blaster trained at him. The trooper looks briefly away from him to give the rare weapon a look, probably impressed under the helmet. Who wouldn't be? "I guess I can keep this."

"In your dreams," comes a low growl from somewhere above and the Stormtrooper suddenly disappears underneath something large and purple and there's a horrible-sounding crack. He can't parse the situation at all anymore, half-lying on the ground with his leg in so much pain he's nearly biting back tears, his arm and nose bleeding, and suddenly _what._ A large familiar hand is extended to him and he takes it with his uninjured one in complete haze and he is pulled up on his feet, which just makes him hiss from pain again.

"Shit, really?"

He's pushed back down, his right sleeve is torn off in the way that should not be so easy, and then there is more tearing and the torn-off sleeve is then wrapped around the rather profusely bleeding blaster wound on his arm. It's stupid how much flesh wounds bleed. There's no way he's going to die from it, but it looks like he could judging by all the blood. After that he's pulled back up and his bo-rifle is shoved against his chest.

"Can you walk?"

He probably shakes his head because he's pretty damned sure he can't: his injured leg is radiating almost incapacitating pain like it hasn't since that night on the Geonosis' cold moon.

 _'Karabast'_ is the predictable reply and then he's quite literally swept off his feet and he's being carried, dumbly bridal-style through the outskirts of the settlement. Zeb moves very fast, jumps on lower roofs like it's nothing at all just to avoid being seen, and carries him like he weighs absolutely nothing. This is all something he vaguely realizes is happening, clutching the bo-rifle against his chest and marveling at how steadily Zeb moves despite the speed. At no point he stops to wonder why Zeb's there in the first place: it feels somehow inconsequential like a lot of things do right now. He would never allow anyone carry him like that if he were in his right mind, but he figures it has to be shock, and the pain, and the cold and sleep-deprivation and hunger and thirst and loneliness and – and _everything_ , the Empire suddenly showing up when they definitely shouldn't have, and the simple, soul-crushing fact that he has _no fucking idea what he is even doing_ , and Zeb feels like a magnetic pole of his stupid upside-down world, something to safely rotate around. He _started it_.

He lets his head slump against the annoyingly comfortable spot between Zeb's shoulder and neck and before unconsciousness takes him he thinks, likely out of his mind with pain and shock, that it's Zeb fault, really, that there isn't any other place he would rather be right now.


	7. Seven

He sits sheepishly by the small table surrounded by the entire crew of what used to be his sworn nemeses, hands neatly on lap and staring intently at one spot on the table. It is wholly uncomfortable and if one person understanding was bad, having more of them _attempt to do it_ is indefinitely worse, so horrible he almost just wants to jump up and scream. He does no such thing, it would not be dignified, but he still feels like his entire skin is itching.

"You should have told us," the Twi'lek pilot says in a way that reminds him of his mother. "And a _certain someone_ should have told us _as well_."

Zeb just grunts, arms crossed over his chest and leaning back on his seat, looking grumpy and almost as uncomfortable as Kallus is feeling, ears folded low and looking at the walls.

It's been a very awkward afternoon. When he came to, he was in an actual _bed_ this time, his injured arm bandaged properly, his nose set but bruised along with his left eye (the Stormtrooper managed to mangle half his face with the kick), and his leg was blissfully painless, which only had to mean that he was high on pain medication. The blanket on top of him was patched-up and worn-out but soft from being used, same with the lumpy but comfortable mattress under him and it was nothing like the regulation Imperial beds: it felt _homely_ in the _good kind of way_ ; wholly imperfect and unappealing like the entirety of the _Ghost_ and its ragtag crew, but in that moment he found it was pretty much everything he had always wanted. Sort of reminded him of _home_ , of his few nice memories of it, and although the neatness of Coruscant had been _nothing_ like this.

He wasn't tied up this time, but his weapons and communication devices had been taken away again, and the only thing on him was the meteorite, safely tucked in the breast pocket where he remembered putting it back on that horrific planet. After he was certain he would be able to sit up without the world starting to spin around its axis, he did so and slowly clambered out of the rather small bed and limped to the door, which helpfully opened to him and he stepped out into the narrow corridor beyond. Several pairs of curious eyes instantly fixed on him in the round, bigger cabin at the other end of the corridor.

Turned out that Zeb had, understandably, never told his crew what had actually gone down on that moon: they had all assumed he had spent the night there alone and had no reason to suspect otherwise. When they had caught Kallus on Nar Shaddaa, Zeb still had kept his silence, and hadn't even told his crew about what they had talked about until he apparently got grilled too hard after Kallus had "escaped" on the world they had stopped at. None of them bought his excuses and he was, after they were already in hyperspace, finally forced to tell everything. Or, most everything, at least: he is pretty sure Zeb had left out a bunch of things, but nevertheless the _Ghost_ had pulled a metaphorical one-hundred-and-eighty and headed back to the planet they had just left the evening before to get back the former ISB Agent who was, after all, hiding more secrets than they had assumed.

And now the crew of _Ghost_ knew about what had happened on that cold moon – about his and Zeb's unexpected camaraderie – and that he was not with the Empire anymore.

They also knew he did not want to part with any confidential Imperial information that might help the rebels, and that didn't sit well with them at all.

The Twi'lek pilot had seemed very understanding from the start, Jarrus, who now wore this _thing_ over his eyes – like a Miraluka – seemed unhappy but it was impossible to tell the extent of his unhappiness because his eyes were hidden and the Jedi were always so secretive, difficult to read even for him (there was a reason the Inquisitorius did the interrogation whenever a Jedi was caught), and the little kid, very understandably, kept eyeing him like he had always done: without even attempting to hide how _much_ hate could one little kid harbor. How he had managed to not fall to the dark side was rather remarkable: Kallus had met Lord Vader and several Inquisitors and none of them had ever radiated hate like this little kid did (the Grand Inquisitor had almost reminded him more of a Jedi if it hadn't been for the malice lurking in plain sight beneath the calm and calculative, almost unnervingly polite exterior). Either his master was some sort of actual wizard, or the kid actually exhibited masterful restraint of his emotions when necessary. The Mandalorian girl – the only one who was not sitting down but rather leaned to a wall further away with her arms crossed over her chest – seemed rather impartial, but there was a tiny disgusted quirk to her mouth and she actively avoided looking at him. He found it rather amusing because every single Mandalorian who was for whatever reason not allied with the Empire and had not tried to kill him off the bat had acted pretty much the same way in his company. And those who did try to kill him first reverted to acting like the girl when fighting was no longer an option. _Mandalorians._ The astromech was now turned off because it had already tried to electrocute him once.

He didn't really blame any of them, but the fact that all of them, even the kid, were doing _this thing_ , this almost irritating _friendly circle of trying to understand the enemy_ thing, was just too much, and he was again at a loss for words, which was starting to be an annoyingly frequent occurrence these days. What was there to say? No apology would be enough, he would not talk of Imperial business, he still did not… _particularly_ care about what was going to happen to him so he was not going to beg for his life or anything of the sort, although he was pretty sure the consensus was that they would try to reach an agreement that if not benefited then at least left everyone involved somehow pleased.

The kid had at least stopped demanding that they throw him out of the airlock, since that had made both his master and the Twi'lek pilot disagree and reprimand him for not having an ounce of empathy, and the kid had almost stormed off for being made to feel like the villain because he had no intention to _ever_ feel sympathy for someone like _him_. And of course he also _had to_ bring up _how_ was _Zeb_ the one who adamantly defended this guy who has been at odds with him from the start and even taken part in the cleaning of Lasan, to which Zeb had growled that Ezra should shut up about things he knew nothing about, and they all had yelled at each other for a while – which to him seemed like a group constant to be honest – and then the astromech had electrocuted him and the Twi'lek pilot had powered it down, and now they had all been quite quiet for some time.

"We can drop you off at whichever world you want to," the Twi'lek pilot says, all diplomacy with her own hurt hidden very very deep: he notes she is wise way beyond her years, "you just need to give us something in return."

"I have nothing to give."

"Bullcrap," the kid says. "You say you're not with the Empire, so why stay so loyal to them then?!"

"Because he doesn't want the pile of bodies to grow," Zeb says gruffly.

"I can fight my own battles, thank you very much," he says drily, sees Zeb narrow his eyes, and then regards the kid from the corner of his eye from a delightfully higher vantage point, making him feel like he really has the moral high ground and subsequently like a complete asshole for doing that to a _kid_ , even if said kid has turned out to be a very proficient and irritating Force-wielding thorn in his side several times already. "If I were to give information to the rebels, Imperials would die. I am not with them, but it doesn't mean I don't care about the civilians and all the innocent people under their rule who will suffer if I talk."

"They're still Imperials," the kid says unhappily.

"So they deserve to die because of it? Did your parents deserve to die just because they were _not_ Imperials?"

"You—!"

His master grabs him by the collar, very unnervingly because he quite clearly cannot see but still _knows_ everything that goes on in the cabin: knows the exact moment the kid attempts to get out of his seat and _why_ , and the Force has always been both magnificent and absolutely horrifying.

"I would not go there if I were you," Kanan Jarrus tells him, tone half-apologetic and half a very clear warning that it will not sit well with him either. "Do not blame him for not understanding, and not because he is young or because the issue is volatile, but because you cannot compare random faceless civilians to people you _love_. It is the same thing, but fundamentally different."

"So _you_ understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Of course," Jarrus says with a nod, still holding his fuming padawan by the collar. "But I would imagine you have plenty of information that does not pertain to civilians in any way. Why you're not willing to part with any of _that_ … is what I don't understand."

"You do understand that from Imperial viewpoint _you_ are the bad guys here?"

"Semantics, but yes. I don't think any of us condones the killing of civilians, though, and we would all avoid bloodshed altogether."

He quirks an eyebrow and Jarrus catches even _that_ , and sighs.

" _Most_ of us would avoid bloodshed altogether. But this is war. We try to protect those who do not wish to fight, we try to help those who suffer from fighting or are forced to fight because they don't have the choice, and thinning the actual numbers of our enemy comes right after. If you can help with _any of that_ , I would call us square."

"And if I still keep my silence?"

Jarrus frowns. "We will take you to our Commander and he will decide how to deal with you. If you wish to keep your freedom, that's the one thing you don't want."

"If I revealed trade routes, you would be taking supplies from civilians as well. If I revealed locations of, for example, factories or shipyards, civilians, slaves, workers and regular technicians working there would suffer the consequences: you cannot possibly get them out _and_ succeed in making your objective nonfunctional. They'd send more workers, capture more slaves; repair the damage. And what would you do with something like the command structure of the ISB? You would never get to any of them."

"Sleeper agents," the Mandalorian girl pipes up. "Alone, disposal can be carried out by one person, no casualties: one small piece off the table, one pair of eyes off our operations."

"You don't understand the _capacity and reach_ of the ISB: one sleeper agent would be replaced with another one in a matter of days, even _hours_ , and their identity you would not know because _I_ do not know who would be sent as a replacement. The ISB knows instantly when an agent goes silent and there would be an investigation, so you would not be able to use that information for sensitive operations that require you to pull the wool over the Empire's eyes. And if the same happens to many agents, they will know you know, and replace everyone out there to protect them. They would also know I provided the information, making my life harder, although judging by what happened today I am already on their capture-on-sight list. Point of the matter is: it would hardly benefit you for long and I assume you're looking for more permanent solutions to your problems with the Empire."

The Mandalorian girl scoffs quietly and continues looking away.

"If you don't give us _something_ our leadership will take what they want from you and _that_ will not help you protect civilians," the Twi'lek pilot says. Despite her appeal to emotion there is no pleading tone in her voice and she remains as professional as ever. Well, he knows now who the _real_ brains behind the ragtag _Ghost_ crew is: he would have used that particular piece of information _hard_ if he still worked for the ISB. They wouldn't haven't concentrated on chasing down Jarrus, rather having left that particular job for the Inquisitorius: they would have gone straight for Hera Syndulla. Should have figured, considering her lineage.

"Believe me, I am trying to think of _something_ ," he says calmly.

"Think _harder_ ," Zeb growls from his seat, still looking displeased and gruff. "Thought you were _good_ at that."

He hazards a look towards Zeb and almost freezes solid: Zeb's eyes are _cold_ and that is thoroughly unnerving and upsetting and suddenly his leg hurts again and he feels sick, the same old frozen haze lowering like a curtain in his mind. He stands up hastily, makes half the crew (everyone aside from Zeb and Jarrus) jump up with their hands landing on their respective weapons (pretty sure the kid goes all the way and activates his lightsaber judging by the crackle), and he quickly raises his arms although he's still completely unarmed.

"I assume I still have time to think?" he asks.

"The jump is long and we will have to stop again to fuel half-way there, so yes," the Twi'lek pilot replies.

He nods and excuses himself, returning to the room he woke up in. He has no idea whose it is or if he's allowed to go there anymore, but he just needed to get away before he started shivering. He goes to the same bed he woke up in, hand clutching the cold meteorite in his breast pocket through the fabric, and crawls under the covers, hoping that would help in getting some of the warmth back.


	8. Eight

"—'s up with Zeb and that asshole, did you see them come in?"

"Yeah, very cute."

"More like _ew what_."

With that the kids' conversation trails off into unintelligible murmur as they pass the room and now he's unfortunately awake and not feeling much better. The leg hurts again, definitely worse than it's been in weeks and he wonders if the Stormtrooper stomped on it hard enough to shatter the bones entitely: it would've probably been easy because it's been such a short while since the last time that happened, and the prospect of it doesn't make him exactly happy. He wonders if the _Ghost_ carries any kind of professional diagnostic unit or medical amenities of any kind aside from basic things like gauze, and band-aids for the kids. Oh, what a zinger, he needs to keep that in mind.

He doesn't bother opening his eyes, just sort of hopes, shivering from the psychosomatic cold under the patched-up worn-out soft blanket, that he'd fall back asleep now that the kids aren't making any loud stupid observations right outside the door. His memory is spotty at best ever since the Stormtrooper showed up back on that backwater world, but he remembers Zeb, and his torn sleeve around his forearm (he needs a new shirt because it only has one sleeve now) and Zeb's arms under his shoulders and knees and the rough fabric of his outfit against his bruised cheek, the surprisingly steady rise and fall of his chest despite the speed he kept up. He doesn't remember getting back to _Ghost_ or getting his arm bandaged or nose set or ending up in this all-too comfortable bed, but yes, he remembers Zeb out of nowhere saving his life – again. How many times now? He's lost count. Setting him free on that planet probably does not count because it almost led to him getting killed, and will probably lead to him getting killed unless he figures out _if_ he wants to give the rebels any information in the first place, and if so _, what_ would that information be so there would be one less ghost of guilt haunting him when he eventually goes free.

That reminds him of the cold in Zeb's eyes when he told him he should think harder, and it is profoundly distressing, again, how much that cold felt like a frozen spike through his chest, its ugly tendrils – again – reaching slowly to wrap him back into the cocoon of not-caring because there is no warmth left in the universe, and this far Zeb has been the only person who has looked at him without trusting the misinformed preconceptions of who he is supposed to be. Funny how that works, how someone you've considered an enemy, who has _every reason_ in the world to hate your guts and even want you dead, is suddenly the only friend you've ever known, who judges you by your current merits and not just by what you were or aim to be; who sees _you_ and not what he thinks _is_ you.

He's attributed his leaving the Empire to the cold and slowly losing his belief in what he had thought was _right_ all this time, but he slowly realizes it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for Zeb. Seeing the _Ghost_ pick up Zeb from that cold moon while he had to remain, gradually feeling more and more betrayed by what he had dedicated his entire life to serving loyally, and remembering all the times Zeb and his friends had gone to unimaginable lengths to save one another against impossible odds: how it would feel like to actually _have friends_ who _care_ , and not just colleagues who are only ready to shove you down the moment you make a mistake or exhibit weakness.

He was _jealous._

And then there was the whole thing about achieving some level of understanding and finding something in common during the night they had to work together in order to survive. Neither would have lived if they had abandoned each other, not even considering the fact that they might have dueled each other to death to start with if he hadn't broken his leg, and… Zeb had skipped the obvious chance to take advantage of the situation and triumph once and for all, and instead strove to _help_ him, in his gruff and aversive sort of way. And Kallus' expectation of Zeb just waiting to stand on even ground with him again so that the inevitable duel to death would be _noble_ and _fair_ turned out to be wrong as well, and Zeb just genuinely had wished him well, departing as… something other than mortal enemy. There was something about how not every Imperial was the same, just like not every Lasat was the same, and how Zeb seemed willing, after hearing Kallus' side of the story, to accept that the cleaning of Lasan (who is he even kidding: it was not _a cleaning_ , it was a _genocide_ , and glossing it over with terms the Empire came up just to make it sound less like murdering innocents, was like spitting on the memory of every Lasat who had died) had not been right and it shouldn't have gone like that, but from Imperial viewpoint the subjugation of Lasan had seemed necessary. And Zeb had looked at him differently after that, like he wasn't just a despicable, probably-baby-eating Imperial monster, but a person who was naïvely following orders, made bad decisions and was capable of regret and remorse and re-evaluating his past choices. He had gone through the same regarding Zeb: how he wasn't just this berserker-rage-driven brute embittered by the massacre of his people, but rather someone deeply affected by what had happened yet still fighting for what _he_ believed was right and capable of letting go of grudges to work together with someone he _hated_.

A lot had changed that night. He realizes he would not be there if it wasn't for Zeb, and attributing it all to the meteorite and the cold was only half the truth: it was _Zeb_ who had made him notice the coldness in other people's eyes because he was the one who had looked at him with warmth even though he had absolutely no reason to.

The thought warms a little, in the scary kind of way he probably should soon allocate some time for analyzing, although _that_ thought scares him even more because the variables are horribly unknown.

_Yeah, very cute_.

He is, whatever may come, _glad_ that Zeb is there at least, even if the cold in his eyes is now there to stay and the only source of warmth in the universe has succumbed to the equilibrium. He heaves a sigh and attempts to roll over in the bed, only ending up on his back because he forgot his arm, and he hisses quietly in pain when he moves his leg a little. He needs to get that checked, but he doubts the _Ghost_ 's crew would be too happy to get their captive to the closest medical specialist, especially if they're as far into the Outer Rim as he assumes, and letting the leg be until they reach… wherever it is that they're heading and he _might_ receive appropriate medical attention could turn out to be too late and he'd end up with a cybernetic leg anyway.

"Is it the leg?" comes the gruff voice from the other side of the cabin and he almost jumps up from the bed. He kept his eyes closed all this time, he had _no idea_ someone was there with him. He sits up, briefly feeling dizzy and wondering if he's running a fever now too, and sees Zeb, sitting in what would be a window-seat if there only was a window, his bo-rifle (or is it _his?)_ balanced on his lap. Doesn't seem to have the blade attached: Zeb's, then.

He sees no reason to lie or draw attention away from the fact that yes, in fact his leg is in quite a lot of pain, and if there's anything the _Ghost_ 's crew can do to help it would be much appreciated. "Yes," he replies.

Zeb nods, reaches out for a pocket and tosses accurately a small container full of pills to him. "Sorry there ain't anything more heavy-duty onboard," he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Hope it helps."

He thanks Zeb and swallows a pair of pills before tossing, not quite as accurately since his head is still swimming a little, the container back to Zeb, who still manages to catch it, claws dug into the edge of the not-window-seat recess before he swings back to sit down, the bo-rifle still securely on his lap. He's not sure if Zeb's there, armed, because the _Ghost_ 's crew feels like they still need to watch over him or what. He sort of hopes it's for the company, not just out of some duty. He could use companionship, even if Zeb's eyes are not entirely warm anymore (but not as cold anymore either, which is a relief, and whatever made the cold manifest before was probably just frustration over Kallus' stubbornness or inability to decide) and he's not quite sure what exactly _they are_. He's loath to admit that he's never actually had a _friend_ before, so he's not sure what a friendship actually entails.

"I asked about the meteorite, by the way, before," Zeb says after a while, starting to idly handle the weapon on his lap. "Hera said she has never seen anything like it and Kanan held it, and, well, sort of stared at it for a long time before handing it back and telling me that it used to have some power but it's now gone. He said it likely ran out of fuel."

"Ran out of fuel?" he repeats. "If it's out of fuel do you think it could be… refueled?"

Zeb blinks at him, looking a bit surprised, and then shrugs.

"Tell me, _where_ exactly did you _find it_ back on Bahryn?"

"Now that you mention it, it was in this small… basin, thing," Zeb explains, gesturing with his hands. "Had probably melted its way through the ice. There were fumes, not just steam, smelled like… chlorine, or something."

"And you just grabbed it?"

Zeb shrugs, lets out a sort of "meh" sound.

If refueling the meteorite is going to be as easy as dipping it in water Kallus is going to crash the _Ghost_ into the nearest asteroid field. "Do you think—?"

"Mate, I have no idea," Zeb replies.

"It's worth the try," he muses. "It's either that, or that water or the atmosphere on Bahryn had some special qualities, or then it's just indefinitely out of fuel and there is nothing that can be done. Unless… we find where it came from in the first place."

"Why are you so hung up on that thing? It's just a rock."

He looks away and furrows his brow, which makes his bruised eye hurt, like something is clawing at the socket from the inside. "It… helped me, when I got back to the Empire. It was, and excuse the cliché, sort of like a light in the darkness." He doesn't tell about the cold, that is too abstract to explain, and would make him sound like he's losing his mind. Which he isn't entirely sure _isn't_ a thing that is happening.

"How _did_ you get back to the Empire? The transponder?"

He laughs and ends up coughing, which makes Zeb twitch on the not-window-seat like he wants to get up, but stills before actually doing so.

"No, a trader picked up the emergency signal sometime after you left and I hitched a ride with them. The Empire had ceased the search, having used up all allocated time and resources to find me."

Zeb's eyes are wide and suddenly there's overwhelming warmth and Kallus wants to get up and walk to him and just lean against his shoulder like back on that backwater planet, and the thought is so powerful and so new and scary that his mind reels, heart thumps louder once, twice. "I'm sorry," Zeb grumbles.

He shrugs. "That's the way the Empire does things. I can't say I was happy about it, but it's useless to waste resources for something that, after days, has turned out to be a wild goose chase. Of course now they likely have unlimited resources for catching me when they consider me a deserter and probably a rebel conspirator as well." He can't help the bitterness from seeping into his voice: he _is_ still angry about that, and how little camaraderie really means in the Empire. Then again camaraderie would prevent people from effectively pushing down others in order to advance themselves, which is what the Empire is built upon, so keeping that in mind it is working just as intended, whether he likes it or not.

" _Karabast._ That is _shitty_ ," Zeb grumbles. "You don't give up on your… _comrades_ or _friends_ like that, you look for them until you find them."

"Well," he says, and then adds, quieter, "it's not like I had any friends in the Empire. Or anyone who would look."

"If I had known… I would have brought the _Ghost_ back and taken you some place where you could've contacted them. Would've forced the others to comply, no shenanigans," Zeb says, scarily heartfelt. "No… no one deserves that."

"Thank you for the sentiment," he says, now back to the sardonic dryness he happily recognizes as his, "but we both know we'd have ended up in this same situation, only difference being that I would have already escaped and left your ship in ruins."

Zeb laughs, a sound that sends warmth through him, like a wave that settles as this tiny spark of heat in his chest. "That's what you'd _like_ to think."

"You act as if I haven't already mapped all the vulnerabilities in this very cabin," he says, quirking the eyebrow that _doesn't_ make his bruised eye hurt, and points at the wall left from Zeb. "Right there. Hull structural integrity compromised because of what I assume is very haphazard installation of new oxygen filters." He points at the ceiling. "Another: a ventilation shaft likely just wide enough to crawl through. Ends up near – I assume by the sound and the smell – the sublight engine reactor cores, or at least allows access to the main fuel lines. I would also only need an interface access to the ship's main computer and I could override your hyperjump parameters and plot the new jump straight into an asteroid field instead. Or maybe in the middle of an Imperial fleet. Imagine the _havoc._ "

Now Zeb looks somewhat sour, but entertained nevertheless. "I'll have to let Hera know…" he grumbles.

"Yes, you better do that. Your ship is a _flying deathtrap."_ Kallus feels sort of accomplished and somehow better, having explained couple of the very obvious design flaws inherent in _this_ cabin only. He can only imagine what he'd find if he were to pay attention to all other parts of the _Ghost_. He's not _entirely_ useless after all.

Zeb stays quiet for a while, running his clawed fingers along the bo-rifle on his lap. "You're not gonna… take advantage of any of that, are you?"

He shakes his head, can't help the rare smile (not a smirk or of the sardonic kind, but actually genuine one, he thinks) tugging at the corner of his mouth, and when Zeb actually returns it, the spark inside his chest bursts into flames, consumes his heart and now the warmth is in his veins, liquid fire and bright yellow light thought long gone, reaching everywhere and purging away the permeating chill. There is equilibrium there, and it's not that of the cold and nothing, and it is _welcome_.

Zeb stands up, stretching a little, and walks towards the door past the bed Kallus is sitting in, and before going, leans briefly in and turns on the small strip of light embedded in the wall just above the nightstand next to the bed. It's so familiar, and it's _thoughtful_ and Kallus finds himself biting back tears, fully aware that he is everything but alright and his world is hanging by a thread constantly in danger of flash-freezing and snapping, making everything plummet down into whatever cold abyss of madness lies below, and Zeb keeps grabbing that thread, preventing it from being severed by the violent cold, and he likely doesn't even realize.

Zeb looks at him from the corner of his eye, hand on the doorframe. "Just in case you feel like you'd need it. You should get more sleep, you look like shit."

"Thank you," Kallus mutters, staring at the light although he knows he will just end up seeing spots afterwards, but facing Zeb is just impossible, he might burst into tears for real.

"Hm," Zeb hums, almost cheerfully, "first time I think I got thanked for telling someone they look awful."

"You know what I meant," Kallus retorts in the same tired mutter.

"Yeah," Zeb says, now markedly soft besides the cheerfulness, and leaves the cabin.


	9. Nine

_How_ do these people keep _running_ into these things, Kallus does not understand. Was _he_ as much of a pain in the ass when he was adamant in chasing the _Ghost_ down?

The _Ghost_ stopped to refuel at a world Kallus vaguely remembers visiting before: much livelier, along an actual trade route and unfortunately one of those places he knows the ISB has a sleeper agent stationed on just to keep an eye on pirates who tend to ravage the area. Trying to spot any rebel activity is only a secondary mission parameter. He doesn't tell the others: if they neutralized the sleeper agent, the ISB would know and depending on current Imperial movement they could have a real problem in their hands before they're off the planet. He trusts the _Ghost_ 's crew knows to keep low profile in places like these, and he stays inside the ship anyway. He's in fact in no condition to go anywhere: the leg is bad and probably infected now, he has fever and he can hardly muster enough strength to move around. He went out just enough to catch some fresh air, but other than that he's stayed bed-ridden, knowing the Mandalorian girl keeps watch outside the cabin. He wishes it would've been Zeb: the Mandalorian girl insists on not talking to him, and to be honest they wouldn't have much to say to each other anyway aside from flinging insults back and forth, and he feels like his wit has lost its previous razor-sharp edge a long time ago anyway.

It's been maybe an hour or two when there are noises outside the cabin and Zeb enters, steps next to the bed, rips open the plastic sleeve of some stim with his teeth and sticks the needle into Kallus' arm. Kallus yelps, purely out of surprise, but soon his head is much clearer, the fever feels like it was only a memory long gone and his leg has miraculously stopped hurting.

"There's a doc in town, we're going," Zeb says as a way of explanation and holds out his hand for Kallus to take. After short hesitation, knowing he still probably looks like shit (beard overgrown, hair falling to his forehead from its usually immaculately combed-back order, and pale complexion that probably makes him look like a ghost of himself, wearing some old, patched-up clothing that likely belonged to Jarrus since he's roughly of same size), he takes Zeb's hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. At least the sleeper agent won't likely recognize him if they have bad enough luck to run into him.

Zeb frowns at him, mutters something about him having lost a lot of weight, and basically just drags him out of the cabin and out of the _Ghost_ into the much too bright daylight of outside. He's trying to keep up, preferring his other leg a lot just out of habit although the stim has made the pain a non-issue, but Zeb's moving too fast and he has to tell him to slow the hell down, stumbling a little over his words. He knows the stim has to be short-acting because it's so effective and he'll soon start feeling like absolute shit again, but for now it's just making him high as a kite, and while it keeps his cognitive functions somewhat clear if just a tiny bit manic and makes adrenaline pump through his veins to override all pain stimuli, losing fine motor skills and the difficulty of actually forming words are one of the few downsides of that particular stim. Zeb probably got it from the doctor, which is sort of a good sign: a doctor with stims like these cannot be just some backwater quack. _Hopefully._

Zeb glances back at him at his request to slow down and grumbles at him wordlessly for a moment. "You know that stuff will run out and then I will have to carry you, is that what you want?"

"If it's gonna be like that newlyweds bridal carry again, _nooo,_ thank you," Kallus slurs and attempts to keep up, hanging onto Zeb's hand. His finger pads are so soft against the back of his hand. What a dumb thing to notice.

"Yeah it's gonna be exactly that one, so better keep that good leg moving."

He still slows down a bit, which Kallus appreciates.

"I wouldn't mind the carrying… thing," he mutters, "but people are looking. So undignified." People are _already_ looking as they make their way through the bustling town and its marketplace, and yeah, they're probably somewhat odd sight. Kallus realizes he isn't even wearing boots and has no idea where those are.

"Appearing _dignified_ should be the least of your worries, you idiot," Zeb mutters back. "Who are you trying to impress? I already carried you through one town like a princess and you didn't seem to mind much."

"I'm not a princess," Kallus replies intelligently.

"You sure do enjoy being treated like one," Zeb retorts and then stops in front of what looks like an actual clinic, which is a lot to say about a backwater world like this one. "We're here."

The stim wears off just as the doctor gets into work with her droid and he gets a shot that puts his lights out, probably for the best too, because when he comes to, he feels like shit again, but the fever feels like less of an issue, his arm has been bandaged again in what looks like a proper way to do it and his leg is in an actual cast. The doctor's telling Zeb about his situation since he's been out of commission, and Zeb seems to listen very attentively, looking like he'd be making notes if he only had a datapad at hand. He listens with half an ear about a shattered bone, how the shards had dug into flesh and caused an infection, but she had removed the shards during the operation, and, she says in a more berating tone of voice, that they shouldn't have waited so long to get proper care; that the bone's been broken twice in a short timeframe from what she can tell and it's likely he will lose the leg if it's not allowed to heal properly, and then she gets back to the medication she's prescribing him and what dosages he should be getting.

They notice at the same time that he's awake, so the doctor starts telling him the same things he just overheard and Zeb stays near the door, looking sort of small and uncomfortable. The doctor would not recommend him moving anywhere yet and she'd like to keep him in the clinic overnight just to see how he starts healing, but Zeb tells her it's not possible, that they need to keep moving, have this, uh, delivery to make, really urgent, can't wait at all.

She huffs unhappily, gets him crutches and tells him to be careful at least.

Back outside it's late afternoon, an hour or two before nightfall, and the town has quieted down some. Not that any amount of small-town bustle would hide the tell-tale scream of a pair of TIE fighters and an Imperial ship following suit towards the spaceport at the heart of town, and Zeb suddenly just yanks the crutches away from him, tosses them away and lifts him up in that damned bridal carry again, springing into run towards the spaceport.

_Out of all the rotten luck in the galaxy._

"I told you _not_ to carry me!" he complains, smacking Zeb on the shoulder.

" _Princess_ , I don't give a shit right now," Zeb replies almost angrily. "Do they _really_ want you so bad?!"

"It's _you_ and your idiot _crew_ they want so badly! You must have alerted the sleeper agent—"

"The _what?!"_

Well, there goes what little trust Zeb likely had in him. He's frankly surprised the Lasat doesn't just drop him right there and he feels cold again, the small spark that's taken residence inside his chest extinguished completely and replaced with the ice of disappointment, regret, and even fear. He stays quiet, incriminatingly so.

"There's one of your shitty agents on this world and _you didn't see it your business to tell us?!"_ Zeb rumbles at him, his ears lowering against his head from quite evident disappointment and anger. " _Whose side_ were you on again?"

"What difference would it have made?!" he replies, voice unnaturally high because he's upset at himself. "If you had killed him the Empire would still be here. I figured you'd be smart enough to _always_ expect the Empire to have eyes everywhere and act accordingly! Not my fault if you failed at that!"

"A warning would have been nice!" Zeb shouts.

He actually doesn't have anything to say to that, he knows he should've at least mentioned it, and regrets now that he hadn't. "Just let me down," he says quietly, hearing the first sounds of blaster fire from the direction of the spaceport.

"Why in the _world_ would I do that? Are you still going on about how this is undignified? Listen, you idiot, this way I can protect you from—"

There's a sound of blaster fire from somewhere much too close and Zeb suddenly trembles violently and almost like stumbles over his feet, yet when he falls he manages to do it so that he rolls over Kallus, shielding him with his arms, and Kallus is just left on the ground, while Zeb crashes heavily down on his back in front of him.

"—from _that_ ," Zeb finishes tenaciously in a rough sort of voice, still twitching a little, and Kallus crawls closer, eyes wide and suddenly confused, horrified and _afraid_.

Zeb looks at him upside down, scowling. "A stun bolt," he says. Obviously, of course. "Sorry. Were you hurt?"

"What? No! What. Are _you_ hurt? What the fuck?" Kallus says, absolutely stunned that Zeb would take a blaster stun, fall down while still adamantly protecting Kallus from harm all the way while his nervous system was probably short-circuiting and made controlling _any_ muscles _really difficult_ , and then has the fucking audacity to ask him if _he's_ alright.

"I'm fine," Zeb says and then he's shoving his bo-rifle at Kallus and telling him to fucking turn around and start firing because the Stormtroopers are getting closer, and Kallus does as he's told, rolling over to his back, propping his shoulder against Zeb's and dropping the approaching couple of troopers with trembling, uncharacteristically sloppy shots. His hands are shaking way too much. The third one comes from a blind spot and he quickly unwraps the bindings from around the weapon to activate it properly and pierces the third trooper's torso with the purple sparks.

"Nice," Zeb says.

"Y-you need to get up," Kallus replies. They're so lucky the troopers likely have the same old orders to take the crew of _Ghost_ back alive for interrogation and therefore don't actually shoot to kill.

"Kinda hard," Zeb deadpans back and Kallus realizes he's backed up far enough to have propped his elbow against Zeb's ribcage, his back against his shoulder, Zeb's head basically under his arm, and for a second he just stares and then awkwardly removes himself, rolling off Zeb (rolling is pretty much the only movement he can do with his shit leg while prone) and holding out the bo-rifle for him to take as he slowly gathers himself up from the ground.

"Keep it, we need to make it to the spaceport and I can't shoot with you on my arms," Zeb says.

"You don't have to—"

"This ain't one of those things that's actually negotiable, so shut up," Zeb interrupts him with a frustrated growl and then just sweeps Kallus off his feet again, starting towards the spaceport with the speed he had kept up before.

They make it to the spaceport, where rest of the _Ghost_ 's crew is under siege by Stormtroopers and the two howling TIE fighters swooping over trying to get a shot inside the thankfully sheltered spaceport. The _Ghost_ 's shields are up and the Mandalorian girl is apparently manning the weapons and trying to keep the TIEs at bay that way because they're indefinitely more deadly than the Stormtroopers on the ground.

Kallus drops at least four of them before they even notice they're there, and then Zeb ducks in for cover, leaves Kallus there, his hand lingering on the knee of his good leg and with only a nod of his head he trusts his bo-rifle with him and dashes towards next cover. It's not like he _needs_ a weapon, he hits hard enough to knock a Stormtrooper out cold with just his fist, Kallus knows this, and now with fire coming from three different directions it should be easy enough for him to sneak up on some of them and dispose of them, at least securing his crew a clear way into the _Ghost_.

Which is what he does, and the Twi'lek pilot with the astromech trailing behind her, Jarrus and his padawan all make it to the _Ghost_ , firing the last shots from the ramp before disappearing inside, and that's when Kallus realizes he's still on the other side of the spaceport with half a squad of Stormtroopers between him and his way out of there, and his still-cold heart just plummets. He wouldn't mind being rid of the rebels, he thinks, but being left alone with all these Imperials around does not really sit well with him either since they know he has to be there; they must know where he's firing from. He peeks over his cover, checking if he can get a clear shot now that most of the troopers are firing towards the _Ghost_ , when he's _once again_ lifted off the ground on strong arms, and Zeb dashes towards the _Ghost,_ brutally stepping on one trooper on the way while Kallus shoots at least two others before they're on the ramp as well and then inside and Zeb pulls the ramp up and shouts that everyone's accounted for, _hit it_ , before he gently places Kallus down and runs deeper inside the ship, likely to man one of the batteries.

The engines rumble into life while he can still hear blaster fire from outside and the screams of the TIEs, and they have probably already broken orbit while he's still sitting on the cargo bay floor, leaning to Zeb's rifle propped against the cold metal under him and almost sobbing while trying to recover from the adrenaline surge, the sudden inexplicable fear of having been left behind and how he's so cold and everything, _everything,_ and it's eventually Zeb who returns, picks him up again without making any stupid scathing or joking remarks about him being in tears (he has enough sense left to appreciate that) and carries him through the ship to the bed that's now sort of become his with the dumb nightlight on next to it. He doesn't even feel embarrassed about actually leaning his head to that annoyingly comfortable spot between Zeb's neck and shoulder on the way there.


	10. Ten

He's already forgotten the dream when he wakes up in the middle of a scream and covered in cold sweat. The screaming just turns into deep, exhausting breaths. The yellow strip of light on the wall brings him back to reality and he briefly notices the kid peek out of one of the cabins further down the narrow corridor wearing this half-lidded annoyed look with his hair pointing in every direction before he disappears and the door to "his" cabin slides shut and Zeb's there, which is both a relief and the worst possible thing at the same time. He's already blinking back angry, nonsensical tears when Zeb just kneels next to the low bed, puts his hand on the edge of it to balance himself better because squatting like that has got to be awkward with digitigrade legs like Zeb has, and asks, as if he doesn't quite know how to approach this situation (Kallus doesn't blame him: he'd have no idea what to do either), if everything is alright.

He doesn't reply because he doesn't know what to say and besides nothing remains of the dream anymore except the rather crushing nonsensical feeling of anxiety and fear and he just pulls his good leg against his chest and adamantly concentrates on trying to breathe normally. He remembers the annoyed look on the kid's face just now: he's being a huge fucking drag to the crew, like he's always been, and something just _snaps._

No, everything is _not_ alright, everything is pretty fucking far from alright. He's sick and cold all the time, he's afraid he'll lose his leg, he's being held captive by a group of people who all have very good reasons to hate him and he doesn't feel _right anywhere_ and he's about to be turned in to people who have even more reasons to hate him and kill him, and there is literally _nothing_ left in his life anymore. He left _everything_ behind when he left the Empire because the Empire _was_ his _entire life_ for so many years and he has no idea what to do now that all of it is gone. Does Zeb even _understand_ what it feels like to have nothing left, barely even a single reason to _live_ ; what it feels like when there is _no one_ in your life to turn to, when all people you thought you knew were all just strangers wearing familiar faces? What it feels like to be _so lonely_ , just you and your thoughts, and your thoughts are ugly and hopeless and full of self-loathing and desperation, with just this _tiny_ will to keep on fighting and _try_ to find something to hold onto because giving up is for losers, but time goes by and the reasons keep eluding you, leaving behind bitterness and the desire to just _let go_. How it feels like to come back after having been gone and realize no one noticed that you _were_ gone in the first place because that is how replaceable and insignificant you actually are? How he's tired of the war, how he regrets so many things he can never make right again; how much he regrets following orders blindly and never questioning anything because asking questions is not the Empire way and he was _so stupid_ , and around that time Zeb gets up from the floor and sits on the edge of the bed and draws Kallus into a hug, warm and comforting. He freezes solid, realizing he's been talking out loud all this time, crying openly and pouring out his heart at the end of his rope.

"I _know_ what it's like to lose everything," Zeb says gruffly, rubbing his hand in a comforting circle against Kallus' back, so big, _so warm_.

Yes, of course he does, and Kallus lets out a broken little sound and without really thinking about it much more than that clings to Zeb, grabbing at handfuls of short fur on his back because of course he's not wearing his usual gear, his screaming probably woke up the entire ship and Zeb's there straight out of bed.

"I apologize," he mutters. Now he doesn't only come off as pathetic, he comes off insensitive and selfish as well: as if his problems are the biggest ones around; as if _he's_ the one who's been wronged here. At least his family is still alive, although, granted, he hasn't seen them in years and hasn't had any particular interest to reconnect. And now it's not even a choice that exists anymore because his family are Imperial loyalists.

Zeb has friends and a new family and Kallus has nothing and with his _cheery disposition_ he's sure to make lots of friends in no time.

"Nothing to be sorry for."

"That was insensitive of me."

"I really don't care."

"I'm fine," he says then quietly and attempts to squirm away but Zeb has him in a hug-equivalent of a deathgrip and won't let go.

"You're most definitely not," Zeb says very sternly.

It's sort of funny, he's stopped noticing the smell. It's of course still there when he realizes, but it's not the first thing he notices when Zeb's around, it's usually something he pays no mind to anymore. Like desensitization. He notices now only because the whole setting is so different, but it doesn't even bother him like it used to. He scrunches up his nose once and ignores because Zeb is holding him and he's so… soft, and warm and comfortable and… dependable and… Zeb wouldn't be doing this if he _didn't_ care; this isn't the kind of thing you do because your crewmates tell you to go calm down the captive or because you inconveniently woke up or because literally no one else is willing to do it; it has to be something he actually wants to do, and none of that helps at all in making him try to stop the quite pathetic crying. He is so broken, shattered into ugly facets by the cold, everything still hanging by that one precarious thread above a frozen abyss of madness, and yet, and _yet_ , there is still one person who seems willing to help, pull him away from that abyss, help pick up the pieces and warm up that which is covered in the metaphorical entropy of permafrost.

"You're a fucking idiot," Zeb says quietly. "If you need something, all you have to do is ask. If it's not actually crystal clear, because I really can't tell, you're not alone and I want to help. Whatever the hell that means."

He just sobs.

"And I can tell you really need help, you're not _right_. And it ain't right to take you to the rest of our folks when you're like this, you're just a fucking mess." Zeb keeps a short pause. "And it's not weakness or something to admit that, everyone has their rough spots. I guess you just had the pleasure of having your entire way of life taken away from you without having anyone to turn to and that's really shitty. I… know."

"But you'd be there?" he asks quietly.

"Of course I'll fucking be there, why the hell else would I have already done all this shit for you? _Karabast_ , have you never really had a friend before?"

He just shakes his head against Zeb's shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

There's silence. Zeb's now running his hand through his messy everything-but-regulation hair even though his hand is almost the size of his head and he's quite sure Zeb's doing so without realizing it, and it feels so nice. Overwhelming warmth as an actual physical sensation and not this fully psychological reaction to things that make him – he does not dare say ' _happy'_ so he quickly corrects himself – _not-upset_ is sort of a new thing, and of course it comes with the mental sort of warmth as well, the spark again alit inside his chest as he slowly recovers from whatever nightmare kickstarted this embarrassing chain of events.

"Can you stay?" he asks.

"I guess," Zeb replies and pulls away a little, his hands trailing on Kallus' shoulders and as Kallus looks at his profile in the dim yellow of the light strip he's overcome with a whole new set of emotions he hurriedly shoves to the back of his head to compartmentalize at some later point in time when he's not already emotionally vulnerable and very, _very_ needy for the companionship of someone who actually does not want him dead.

Zeb eyes the floor next to the bed. "Not exactly ideal, but, well," he says and shrugs.

"No, I," Kallus starts, uncomfortably aware that one of Zeb's hands is still on his shoulder, massaging idly and his legs are thrown over the edge of the bed but his thigh brushes against Kallus' through the patched-up worn-out soft blanket. He steels himself, pulls himself up straight and stops slouching pathetically, all ruined by the need to sniffle down the last of his sobs. "I meant here, next to me. You're… warm."

"Warm?" Zeb turns to him, his ears perking up in that particular curious way that just remind Kallus of the way a _cat_ would emote with its ears.

"Obviously."

And Zeb _grins_ , revealing his somewhat sharper canines, and the whole expression softens his gruff look considerably but instead makes him look like some sort of playful predator. "You sure that ain't the only reason, _Agent?"_

"Oh, _heavens_ ," Kallus says in a clipped tone, aware that he's going red from embarrassment and no, _seriously no,_ he wasn't even _thinking_ about anything like that, except now he is and it's not something he particularly wants to think about right now and maybe not ever because he has about a thousand things to think through before he can even consider _starting_ to think about _that sort of thing_. He has no idea how to even _parse_ that, it's like words in a language he doesn't understand and that doesn't translate to Basic because it's idiomatic. Yet it _does_ resonate, somewhere deep, somewhere he does not dare to go yet. " _No_ , why would you even… _no_. I just. Dammit." He covers his face with his hand, embarrassingly aware of how Zeb got past his guard with just that, and how the irritating bastard of a Lasat is _still_ grinning, likely fully aware of the effect his stupid joke had. _He's_ not yet aware that Zeb disarming him like that has actually made him stop thinking about the constant ugly thoughts and the cold, but he'll appreciate it later. "I'm _lonely_ , alright? You are the only person in this wretched galaxy who wants for whatever messed-up reason associate with me, and you just said you want to help and I really think it would help if you'd just… sleep next to me."

"Yeah you said something about being cold," Zeb says, and the grin goes as he takes things seriously again, his ears lowered to their neutral position too. Then he briefly eyes Kallus with thinly-veiled suspicion. "You're not tolerating _me_ just because I'm the only one who _tolerates you_ , are you?"

Kallus rolls his eyes hard. "Garazeb, yes, you're the only and closest thing to a 'friend' I have, but think about it: is there any logical reason I would _ever_ tolerate your kind out of anything else than genuine sense of camaraderie? Also I do believe that you're aware of _the smell?"_

"That was probably both the most offensive and also the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me," Zeb says, grinning again, but more subtly, not quite revealing the canines. Is the damned Lasat _really_ flirting with him now? So inappropriate with no sense of correct timing: Kallus feels almost offended, but feeling… _weird_ about being flirted at overrides everything else. He can't say he has much experience in the matter: maybe in the Academy a long time ago. He's flirted with people: it's occasionally a useful and subtle way to extract information, but he can't remember a time he actually did that voluntarily; because _he_ wanted to. He believes he's not particularly well-versed at it either. And this is _Zeb_ , it is… not unwanted, but it is _weird_ , and definitely not the right time, considering he's only recovered from the worst cry he's had since he was a child. But the thoughts, the ugly ones, of cold and madness, are not there now, so if anything, it's a good distraction.

Zeb gives him a gentle push to make him lay down and somehow actually manages to squirm down next to him despite the size of the bed. It's almost uncomfortably crowded, but Kallus just finds himself happily overwhelmed by familiar warmth.

"Not exactly roomy, huh?" Zeb says. "Mine is bigger but I doubt Ezra would appreciate if I carried you into our cabin in the middle of the night."

"Please, no," Kallus mutters. "Besides, can we _please_ leave the carrying for absolute emergencies only?"

Zeb ignores him. "Would be worth it just to see his face," he chuckles and because the bed is so small and Zeb is pressed quite tight against him Kallus can feel the damned rumble resonate through his body. "But yeah let's not traumatize the kids. _Or_ you."

"Thank you," Kallus says drily and when Zeb then apparently decides to settle properly for sleep, casually just draping his large arm over Kallus' chest and tugging him closer, the overflowing warmth both physical and the one inside his chest just robs him of words and thoughts altogether.

"This good?" Zeb makes sure. "Not crushing you or anything?"

"It's nice," he replies quietly.

"Alright. G'night," Zeb mutters, eyes closed and sounding sleepy.

"Good night, Zeb," he manages a reply and then spends the next half an hour trying to catch sleep through both the invasive thoughts inside his head and Zeb's lazy snoring.

But it _is_ nice and he feels warm, energy flowing free, and the warmth can't escape now with Zeb's admittedly quite heavy arm on his chest acting like insulation. He feels a little less broken, too; like one missing piece had just clicked in its place, and now he's aware that the ugly thoughts are kept at bay with Zeb's arm like a bulwark, a shield, a thousand unspoken words of reassurance manifest in a simple gesture. Maybe, for now, it's enough.


	11. Eleven

He's awake first, quite sure he hasn't gotten a lot of sleep in the first place, still comfortably under Zeb's protective arm over his chest, the entire furry warmth against his side, one leg sort of entangled with his, half his face buried deep in the pillow and snoring softly.

He watches Zeb, now that he can, safely and in secret; wonders if his ears do the same thing cat ears sometimes do when you touch the tips: if they start twitching wildly, and he has to really fight the urge to try. He doesn't want to wake Zeb up and if his ears are as sensitive as cat's, he's bound to wake up to someone playing with them.

Also playing with Zeb's damned ears is just… one of those thoughts he just ought to shove deep to the back of his head and leave it for later when he's not as fucked up as he is right now. That way lies heartbreak and codependency and more cold, so much cold he thinks he would not be able to take it anymore: the kind of cold that would sever that thread he's taken to imagining as part of this extended and quite elaborate and maybe nonsensical thermodynamic metaphor of his sanity.

He has been staring at Zeb for quite some time, no idea how long, just studying his features and the way the darker stripes form on his fur and committing it all to memory just… just in case, and fighting the urge to _touch_ , when Zeb suddenly grumbles softly and without opening his eyes speaks up in a voice thick with sleep: "What're you doing?"

"Nothing," he replies hastily, then: "Watching you."

Zeb cracks open one bright green eye. "'Watching me' is hardly 'nothing'."

"I wouldn't really constitute it as something worth mentioning," he says dismissively and falls abruptly silent when Zeb suddenly raises his arm – the one splayed over Kallus' chest – and gently places his hand on top of his head, fingers threading into his mess of hair.

_Too much_ , he thinks, his heart thumping loudly inside his chest once, twice, thrice. _It is not nothing, it's everything._

"I'd constitute it as somewhat creepy," Zeb says, holding his gaze intently with just one eye and his hand cups Kallus' head, thumb brushing strands of hair off his forehead. "You look so weird when you're not all prim and proper."

Yes, he's far from prim and proper not having taken a shower in days, his hair in disarray and beard growing out of control, nose broken and one eye still half-swollen-shut from the bruise, wearing the clothes of someone who's never worn a uniform in his life and it's difficult to look presentable in some likely hand-knitted long-sleeved shirt and old scruffy trousers. He huffs a little and looks away.

"Hey, it's a good thing," Zeb says, almost soft, keeps moving his hand. "I like it."

"No, stop," he says. "What is this?"

"What?"

" _This_ ," he tries to explain, glancing at Zeb with his brow knitted, feeling slightly irritated because he _honestly doesn't know_ and doesn't even dare to begin to guess. "What you're doing right now."

Zeb looks remorseful, almost grumpy, and pulls his hand away. "Sorry," he says. "Thought it'd make you feel better. But I. Guess I'm not really made for that shit, huh?"

_No, dammit_. He frowns, turns his head properly towards Zeb. "It's not that. I'm just… I don't know what I want. Or what you do."

Zeb looks back at him, props his head up with his elbow to almost tower over Kallus and suddenly he looks both serious and a tiny bit lost, and avoids eye contact when he finally speaks, staring at the far wall of the cabin. "Not sure I do myself either," he admits. "All I know is that I fucking hate to see you so upset and unlike the person I became to know."

"The person you became to _hate_ you mean?"

" _Karabast_ , no," Zeb says and rolls his eyes. "The person I became to respect for his skill, cunning and _sympathy_ despite his background being drenched in everything I _should_ hate. I'm not gonna forgive you for what you did, but it doesn't mean I can't ever find other reasons to… not hate you for it."

"So there's no respect anymore? Do you just pity me now?"

Zeb looks difficult. "Not exactly, but… I told you, you're a mess. I want to see you get better, gain back some of that confidence that made you so brilliant before. I doubt you'll ever be the same asshole you used to be anyway."

"At least I won't be the same _Imperial_ asshole, you mean?"

Zeb grins down at him, bright and unguarded. "Yeah, that's more like it."

They fall silent, just look at each other and the grin slowly disappears from Zeb's face, replaced with a puzzled _something_ and Kallus just can't help himself anymore and actually reaches out and, like Zeb had just ran his hand through his hair, he now touches Zeb's cheek and runs his fingers through the very short fur there down to the coarser facial hair and the whole moment feels like a fine layer of ice on top of water on a frosty morning: just a touch, or a breath drawn, would make it shatter, melt away. Zeb looks equally fragile now, which is indefinitely disturbing look on a face that so often defaults to irritation from mild to severe and self-assured smugness, and he's holding his breath. Kallus is afraid to breathe, too, and he finally trails his hand to a rest on Zeb's neck.

It's all weirdly intimate, out of this world weird, to find something like this right here in this moment, in this place where he feels everything is lost, including himself, and Zeb is the only constant, like… what did he think before? A magnetic pole he can safely rotate around? That and so much more. Zeb's lowered his arm on his chest again and is slowly leaning down, a tad hesitant, and he thinks he could be alright with this: in a world so wrong this feels like the one thing that is _right_ , and maybe he would let it happen, come what may, when there's a sharp knock on the door and a call for Zeb to come get breakfast before Ezra goes for seconds and Zeb pulls himself up and stretches his neck with a sharp crack, looking inordinately unhappy suddenly. There is also something else: a slight relief, maybe? Part of him doesn't like it while another part feels equally relieved.

" _Karabast_ ," Zeb just mutters and glances quickly down at Kallus, who's looking perplexed, having been quite violently pulled back to reality where he still has way too much to consider before throwing himself into something he really, _really_ isn't certain about. He blinks up at Zeb, who takes his hand, the one perched on his neck and actually holds it for a moment, claws curling gently around his fingers before he puts it gently down as he stands up from the bed and stretches his limbs, looking absurdly large considering the size of the bed he just got out of.

"To be continued," Zeb says, glancing quickly at Kallus before going. "I'll bring you something to eat."

He just nods, eyes still a tiny bit wide and overcome by… hell, _everything_ that took place within the last couple of minutes, and just as soon as Zeb's gone, his hand is over his mouth, the other grabbing tight at the patched-up worn-out soft blanket and he finally dares to breathe, fast and helpless, and for once he doesn't feel cold, he feels _hot_ , tingling all over from unexpected heat, like he's sitting next to a fireplace.

He really, _really_ ought to do that thinking thing, right about now.


	12. Twelve

He curses the nonexistent soundproofing of the cabins aboard the _Ghost_ and that he has to be privy to the loud arguing outside. Apparently Zeb had to tell the rest about the sleeper agent on the world they had to leave in a hail of blaster bolts – he understands why and doesn't blame Zeb: despite everything he's painfully aware that of course his crew will come first and everything else second. The _Ghost_ 's crew is Zeb's family: _he_ 's just some result of unfortunate circumstances and he still doesn't fault anyone for not trusting him, even when it's Zeb and the thought makes him inordinately upset, something tightening in his chest and the blaze within it burning out into sadly glowing embers settling as a heavy weight at the bottom of his ribcage.

The rest are understandably not happy, the kid sounds furious, Jarrus tries to calm him down although there is a tight edge to his berating words as well and he doesn't actually try to defend his choice of not warning them about the sleeper agent, and then there's Zeb's loud rumbling, presenting the same reasoning Kallus had: that it wouldn't have made a difference and all of them should, by now, _know_ that the Empire has eyes everywhere and they should act accordingly and be mindful and careful and, _but_ , and he mutters it out unhappily: he _should've_ told us.

The kid blames Zeb then, wondering why he's suddenly like best buddies with the guy who's been a thorn in their side for like a _year_ and who killed _Minister Tua_ and has played such a huge part in making Lothal as uninhabitable as it has become, has Zeb forgotten?! and how can Zeb just _forgive_ something like the genocide of his _entire people_ and Zeb grumbles back that he hasn't forgiven a damned thing, he's just trying to _understand_ and not succumb to erratic hate, and if none of the others have noticed, the ex-Agent is pretty fucked up right now and does not deserve the blame that's being poured on him, which makes conflicting opinions rise up as loud cacophony as everyone turns out to have something to say about _that_.

"Yeah, and if _you_ hadn't insisted we get him to the doctor we could've left the world right away and not spent six hours just passing time, it's _no wonder_ the Empire got to us!" the kid's voice rises over others at some point because _damn_ he's loud.

"He's been an enemy but I ain't gonna let him _die_ because of some infection!" Zeb shouts right back, quite a lot louder, and then there's just more yelling, which then dies out and he can make out what Zeb says, in a quieter, terse mutter: "He'd be no use to us dead."

A bit like a thousand small icy spikes through his chest. He remembers just a while ago Zeb leaning over him and _something_ might have happened there, but does it even mean anything, is it just some sort of game? Maybe Zeb just wants to make him feel better so that he'd be more forthcoming to their leaders? He cannot tell anymore. He suddenly hurts everywhere, nothing to do with the leg or the waning fever, and he gets up from the bed, feeling slightly dizzy as he does, and straightening his shirt and pulling his hair back from his eyes he limps to the door and opens it (well at least they trust him _enough_ to not lock the door anymore), and all eyes at the end of the corridor are on him again. He doesn't bother to go further than that and stays lingering at the doorway, sort of afraid he'll provoke them if he moves.

"Just take me to your leaders and get this whole thing over and done with," he says, tries to go for dry and sardonic but fears he might've come off tired and even scared instead. "My physical condition is a non-issue."

He's not sure if the crew has realized how poorly the inner walls of their ship actually cancel noise when everybody's shouting: at least the kid looks slightly surprised beneath the obvious anger.

"So you have decided what to tell them, then?" asks the Twi'lek pilot who doesn't look at him with quite as much vitriol as everyone else does (well, he doesn't exactly know about Jarrus, and Zeb's looking away persistently).

"Yes," he says, swallows, pulls himself up to full height, the way he used to present himself to colleagues and superiors, the way everything was conducted with the Empire, "I've decided to tell them nothing."

The Twi'lek pilot seems disappointed and sighs, the astromech lets out a series of offended, angry beeps and the pilot catches it before it makes a beeline straight for him, and the rest look merely surprised. "If that is your decision," she says.

"It is," he says. "Make haste, please."

"Already on the shortest possible route. Make it eight standard hours, we'll be there by late afternoon ship time."

"And run a scan for tracking devices, you have a rather _abysmal_ track record at noticing those things," he quips, now decidedly drily, before retreating back into the cabin and letting the door slide shut after him. He hears the Twi'lek pilot curse in her own language and then hollers a sort of hesitant thank-you after him. He'll take that, it's almost like an olive branch handed out much too late, but it does make him feel a tiny bit better, _useful._

He briefly leans his back against the door in an attempt to calm down his nerves and the wildly beating heart: why these confrontations give him so much anxiety, he doesn't know. The door feels somehow blissfully cool against his back: the first time _cool_ has felt something other than outright horrifying, but it might be solely because of the fever that is making his skin feel hypersensitive and hot.

_This_ is the right thing to do. He won't cause any harm, he'll get what he guesses has been coming to him for all the horrible things he's done while serving the Empire and he guesses the rebels will get some modicum of retribution, which he feels is maybe more righteous than the one the Empire would enact upon him.

He falls right against Zeb when the door opens and there's suddenly nothing to lean into, and Zeb harrumphs and pushes him back up, steadying him by shoulders before moving into the cabin past him and almost glaring down at him, all daggers but at least the blades are not coated in ice, cut deep though they do.

"What the _fuck_ was that about?!"

"I've made my decision," he says tenaciously and moves back to the bed, his head swimming slightly.

"It's a dumbass fucking decision," Zeb grumbles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Can't you come up with _something_ to tell them? Seriously they'd be happy with _anything_ that helps them gain an upper hand: they will _understand_ you don't want civilians hurt, and they'll understand your point about the sleeper agents as well. They're actually quite decent people, although you might find that hard to believe with your _different outlook_ and how we're the bad guys actually."

"I never said that," he argues tiredly. From _Imperial viewpoint_ the rebels are pretty much everything that is wrong in the galaxy _and_ vice versa, but he's not with the Empire anymore nor is he with the rebels, and he's more aware of the good and bad of both sides of this _stupid_ war.

"You said something really fucking similar," Zeb hand-waves him off much to his irritation. "The point is that they won't go all _Imperial_ on your ass."

"And what happens then? Assuming they'll let me go after I've seen where they are—"

"They don't stay in one place for long, they'll move base when you're out."

"Fine, they will let me go, but what then? There is _nowhere_ I can go. I can't… I _can't_ live on the kind of worlds we visited. I'll end up dead." He doesn't specify. "And I can't join your cause with good conscience."

"Why the hell not?!"

"I'm not worthy, alright!" he shouts then uncharacteristically, gathering the stupid patched-up, worn-out soft blanket in his lap, and looks away tenaciously. Why doesn't Zeb understand _that?_ "You might understand a whole lot of things, but I'm quite certain you don't understand _guilt_. You are a good person. Unlike I."

Zeb almost roars, his arms unwinding and ending up held against his sides, hands balled into tight fists, all hackles raised and ears angrily low against his head. "I can't _deal with you!"_ he shouts right back, a frustrated growl deep in his voice and even hurt somewhere buried beneath. "You drive me absolutely fucking _mad!"_

"Nothing is forcing you to deal with me!" he shouts back, having forgotten all about the zero sound-proofing. "Just leave me at your leaders and you'll never have to see me again!"

"No that's _exactly_ the fucking problem, I can't deal _without you either!"_

Well that does render a rather horrific silence in the cabin and his heart thumps loudly once, twice, thrice, and he loses count when it just keeps going, booming in his ears. He has never read a manual about this or taken a course and the implications are screaming so loud in his ears along with the heartbeat that he might as well be going deaf. Of course it's been in his mind the whole morning, he spent the entire time the crew was having breakfast trying to solve some variables he's never had to deal with before, and although he's never been as xenophobic as Imperials tend to be, he's having a hard time even parsing the fact that he's hopelessly attracted to an alien, to a _Lasat_ no less (although he tries to reason that with the simple _'I'm attracted to_ Zeb _')_ , and just the thought of suddenly not having Zeb in his life, even in this guardsman sort of capacity, is the coldest thought he's had, the one that will most definitely sever the thread and thrust his life into forever entropy. But he's _this_ close to giving up, he's being handed out to the rebels, what does sanity matter at that point? He's played his hand, he had shitty cards, it's time to fold and move on, even if moving on leads to perdition.

When he doesn't say anything, just sits on the bed looking probably confused, Zeb, on the other side of the cabin, posture defensive and face in an angry scowl, takes a step forward. "I know somewhere in there is a good person I know you're perfectly capable of being, I've seen it, but you're so entangled in whatever shit you're going through that you're failing to see it," he says. "I've been _trying—"_

"I know you have," he says quietly.

"But I can't get through to you," Zeb continues and then his shoulders slump and he looks a lot smaller. "Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? I don't wanna lose you, in any capacity, not to our leaders or this cold, zero self-worth, guilt-ridden madness that eats you up inside, or whatever it is. And at the same fucking time _these people_ are my family." He waves his hand ambiguously around at 'these people', referring to the _Ghost_ 's crew. "They helped me up on my feet and I owe them everything. And not only that but they're my _friends_. I can't betray them either."

"No, I understand."

"And it's fucking _tearing me up_ ," Zeb growls, throwing his arms in the air in frustration and then he drops down to sit on the bed next to him and buries his face in his hands.

After a short moment of contemplation he inches closer and just leans against Zeb's side, head against his shoulder, and the warmth floods him again. It is definitely not just nothing, it is most definitely _a thing_ , the kind of thing that will end up in heartbreak very soon, yes, he thinks he can whisper it quietly inside his mind and hold it close to his heart in secret because eight hours is way too short a time to extend the inevitable heartbreak to someone you most definitely don't wish to hurt.

"For what it's worth," he says instead, "you've been a great help."

Zeb laughs bitterly. "Yeah didn't even manage to save you from yourself, such great help."

"No," he says. "If I saw any other way things could go you're the reason I would give something to your leaders."

"You could stay here, with the _Ghost?"_ Zeb says, suddenly sounding hopeful, and _dammit_ maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

"What with the Imperials constantly at your tail? With the rest of the crew hating my guts?" he says, dry and sardonic again. "Yes, very likely to happen."

Zeb grumbles. "I'd make them accept you."

"I get the sentiment," he says, softer now, "but they have all the rights to hate me. Don't take that away from them. They'll never accept me as part of the crew."

"What a damned bitch of an unsatisfactory situation," Zeb mutters unhappily.

He's brave and wraps his arms around Zeb's waist, hugging him somewhat awkwardly, face against his shoulder and finding unbelievable solace in it. It is all so bittersweet when the future tastes foul and he wishes he wouldn't have made all those, he now realizes, stupid mistakes in his past. Maybe things would be different, even if that meant he would have never met Zeb and would not be here, right now (but he would be none the wiser, wouldn't know what he's missing, and it would be alright), or if the stars aligned they would have maybe met under different circumstances and maybe, _maybe_ , it would have worked out in the way the universe is screeching into his mind it should work out and there would be a future and happiness not marred by madness and hate and duty and thirst for vengeance and _the cold_.

But no point in what-ifs. They're where they are, in this time and place, and the universe will go on in its tracks towards heat death and maximum entropy. There is no warmth, no happy endings here.

Zeb drapes his arm over his shoulders, presses his face into his hair and the whole moment feels so broken in the kind of way it really shouldn't, like fractured glass, frozen at the edges, the fractal tendrils of frost at least beautiful in their encroaching coldness.


	13. Thirteen

Zeb was right: the leadership of the rebel cell the _Ghost_ is part of treats him surprisingly well. He's locked up, but not tied up, and his cabin is not some brig although the door is locked from the outside: just your regular cabin on a surprisingly regular blockade runner; a Corellian corvette, he thinks. He wasn't really surprised to find this particular infamous rebel cell, a quite formidable fleet, in fact, perched around the orbit of some hot rock deep in one of Outer Rim's uncharted systems. He meets a Commander Sato he knows by the name that is quite well-known in the ISB, an old clone soldier he's met before and a Togruta woman whose identity is a complete mystery to him, much to his chagrin since he was quite sure he knew the highest echelons of the rebels' scattered leadership quite well. He however understands immediately why when he notices the quite decorative lightsaber hilts dangling from her hips. If the Empire knows about her, it might be on an Inquisitorius basis. He also understands how the rebels might be able to extract information from him whether he wants to part with it or not, and the chill that goes through him feels frighteningly real. He has no idea if the Jedi woman would be capable of such: he knows the Imperial Inquisitorius use it as an interrogation method constantly and with great success rate, but he's rather sure it is more of a dark side of the Force thing, and the Jedi code is against such actions.

He's received with composed politeness, referred to as 'Agent Kallus' to which he replies in a cold tone he cannot help that he is not an agent anymore and that 'Kallus' will do just fine. He never held a rank in Imperial military or the Navy either. Commander Sato nods at that, takes note of his makeshift crutches and asks if he needs medical help. He accepts the offer because despite the leg having been a lot better since it was operated on back on that backwater planet he figures the rebels' medical personnel are a lot better equipped to deal with his injury. A small voice at the back of his head says that it doesn't matter really what happens to his leg, but he silences it with the simple need to keep up appearances.

Commander Sato himself sees him to the ship's medbay with an entourage of armed soldiers trailing after them, and there Sato bids him good-bye for now and then sincerely wishes that he could part with some information that would help them deal with the Empire.

He tells him he has no plans of doing so, to which Commander Sato nods sadly and tells him that Captain Syndulla said as much, but he is still entertaining hopes that he would change his mind eventually.

He's not sure if that is an implied threat or a genuine wish, and never finds out because Sato leaves, leaving behind the armed soldiers who stand by the entire time he spends in the medbay swarmed by medical personnel and droids. He's then seen to his cabin and left there, and the cold comes in, the vacuum of space biting through the walls. His hand goes reflexively to his chest to grab at the meteorite that isn't there in his breast pocket anymore, and now he regrets that last bit of dumb sentimentality he had to show before leaving the _Ghost_ and its crew behind.

He had spent the eight hours with Zeb, mostly undisturbed, mostly talking about things, everything, swapping war stories, trying to one-up each other with a more outlandish story than the previous one. He avoided stories about killing and capturing rebels and Zeb avoided ones that involved more than just bashing in Stormtrooper skulls.

He laughed at some story so hard there were tears in his eyes, didn't remember laughing at anything in ages, and it was refreshing and almost _weird_ and Zeb's smile at hearing that felt even better, like smothering heat inside his chest. Zeb told him about Lasan and he told Zeb about Coruscant. They both remember the Old Republic and Zeb seemed interested in hearing what Coruscant was like before the Empire.

He doesn't remember _that_ much. He was already enrolled in a Republic Intelligence Academy, his eyes set on a career he found interesting and he doesn't remember there having been much of an uproar at all when it was suddenly turned into Imperial Intelligence. He was not that far into his studies that he would have noticed much of a difference, although several instructors and teachers were replaced and a lot of students, mostly aliens, left. His family were quick to adjust to the new way of things, rather pleased by the 'alien scum' finally being driven off-world, and they had been Imperial loyalists since with quite a lot of pride in having a son hold a position so high up in the ISB. He imagined his mother would be clutching her expensive Corellian pearls now.

Zeb told him about the Honor Guard, chuckled quietly at how his folks were proud as well for having a Honor Guard Captain in the family and he had to stop him there, "A _Captain?",_ and Zeb looked sort of hesitant and modest when he gruffly admitted it and " _yeah_ it was kind of a big deal to some folks" and "yeah that's _exactly_ why you've never actually bested me in a duel". The last statement came with a grin, and he rolled his eyes.

He tried to explain the cold to Zeb but found it too abstract and Zeb just kept looking lost and despite _trying_ to understand the whole concept was just too difficult for him to parse, and he guessed you'd have to _feel_ the cold to know how it feels, and he dropped the subject with a somewhat dejected "it's mostly just in my head anyway". Zeb patted gently his back, compassionate, warm, and he said that it helped, so Zeb kept doing it.

Eight hours later the ship's hyperdrive engines went quiet and they quite clearly pulled out of hyperspace and an uneasy silence fell to the cabin, with Zeb being the first one to shuffle up to his feet hesitantly and then extend a hand to help him up as well. They ended up hand in hand, quiet and awkward suddenly with tension crackling in the air like a slowly-brewing thunderstorm. Zeb asked quietly, taking a hesitant step closer, if he could, _you know_ , since they probably won't see each other again and there's no harm, and he had said yes and Zeb had let go of his hand and brought his hands on the sides of his neck, tilted his head up and placed a kiss on his forehead.

And cheek.

And the corner of his mouth.

And briefly, uncharacteristically shyly on his lips, to seal something irreplaceable that couldn't be taken back anymore; to make everything left unsaid reality. He still kept his own words close to his heart, used them to bind it together and keep it from shattering, knowing that _come what may_ he had this and it was not nothing, it was _really_ a thing. There was someone who cared amidst all the cold.

The unfairness of the world is a yawning abyss of a frozen Eldritch maw filled with teeth like icicles.

Zeb remained close for a moment longer, thumbing gently at his jawline, "If you… do change your mind, know that I will be here, and I'll be waiting."

"Please don't," he replied quietly, didn't wish Zeb to hang onto something that was gone: it was pointless and he knew he'd just want Zeb to be happy, even if that meant finding happiness elsewhere. Either way he wasn't entirely sure he could've made Zeb happy in the first place.

" _I'll be waiting_ ," Zeb said, emphasizing every single word, and only for Zeb's sake he didn't burst out in tears.

He reached down for the meteorite on the nightstand and held it out in his hand. "I won't need it anymore, so," he just said, somewhat awkward, and tenaciously held the meteorite out for Zeb to take until he eventually did, which was an inordinately irritatingly long time to hold out one's hand.

"I'll be only holding this _for_ you," Zeb said, almost a threatening growl in his voice as he carefully cradled the now unremarkably ordinary piece of rock in his hands.

He had shaken his head, chuckling quietly. "Fine. Then hold onto my bo-rifle as well." Zeb would have a replacement if his own ever broke, although those particular weapons were built to last and withstand a lot of punishment, quite like Lasats themselves.

"Of course."

They had exchanged one last tight squeeze of hands before exiting the cabin. Outside in the corridor Jarrus handed him a pair of makeshift crutches to help him walk, and the crew saw him out of the airlock where he was met with the now-familiar entourage of armed soldiers, and the farewells had been curt, partly cheerful (the kid especially probably couldn't have been happier to finally get rid of him and did nothing to actually hide his glee) and partly absent since Zeb had decided not to join. It had hurt, but he didn't blame Zeb: he wasn't sure if he would have been able to handle Zeb being there either. It was much better that way: now he had memories that weren't really painful good-byes. Painful, yes, but at least not good-byes. Words might have also crawled up his throat and out into the open as a last selfish resort and he wouldn't have known what to do if that were to happen.

Now he regrets giving out the meteorite, although he's pretty sure the rebels would have had it confiscated anyway, just like they did to his pain medication until he received the exact same ones from the ship's medbay. Doesn't really matter anymore.

He also regrets never saying anything and that wherever the _Ghost_ is now heading Zeb might be there without actually knowing that all along he felt the same and would have returned everything tenfold had the universe not torn them apart and if his fate hadn't been sealed with this ever-present cold. It is however surprisingly easy to come to terms with it now that he knows that it will never happen and it is already in the past.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, hands palms-up on his lap as if he's holding the meteorite that is not there, when the ship-wide alarm suddenly blares in a deafening volume and all hands are requested on their stations, repeat, all hands on stations. He stands up, curious about what is going on, and feeling pretty sure that he has guards stationed outside his cabin he bangs on the door until it's opened and he can ask the armed soldier what exactly is happening.

Apparently two Imperial Star Destroyers had come out of hyperspace and were now engaging the rebel fleet.

He's baffled: how the Empire always ends up wherever he is he has no idea, maybe he just has really bad luck, maybe he's been fitted with some secret ISB tracking chip he's not even aware of or maybe the _Ghost_ had failed _once again_ at sweeping for tracking devices despite him reminding them of it. He's in the middle of trying to work out the whys when the answer to another question suddenly comes to him and it's almost like everything gets bright for a second, his heart flaring up in flames and he feels like the world spins around its axis. He feels the ship tremble around him as deflector shields absorb enemy fire, as if the entire universe is shifting and changing course, a fresh memory, flash of purple, maybe something like _hope_.

"Please get me to Commander Sato right away," he says to the guard, finds himself pleading, suddenly feeling exhausted from adrenaline and for the first time in ages seeing a tiny speck of light at the end of the tunnel and even the cold is gone. "I can get you one of those Destroyers."


	14. Fourteen

It's not that he ever expected it to be exactly easy, but he knows the layout of a Star Destroyer like the back of his hand and despite the daunting crew, he knows exactly how to capture one. The trick lies in taking down the Admiral, because without proper leadership it usually turns out Imperials have no idea what to do. Stormtroopers of course have their own command structure that will hold despite the loss of an Admiral, but the trick is to avoid them and only engage the ship's crew directly while Stormtrooper captains are none the wiser.

He knows the ship's weaknesses because he knows what possible rebel saboteurs aim for, and, the best of all, no civilian will get hurt because of what he's about to do. He never actually promised that Sato's rebel cell would actually get their hands on an Imperial Star Destroyer, but if he can assume command of one and turn it against the other and then overload the reactor core that will invariably destroy the entire ship _and_ everything in the vicinity, leaving the TIE squadrons outside stranded and easy pickings for the rebel fleet, they _have_ to be square: he would have saved the rebels from definite destruction (from what he can tell the TIEs have already obliterated half of the rebels' starfighters and are keeping rest of the fleet pinned so tight with their shields overloaded near capacity so that they cannot jump into hyperspace), and if that is not enough, he can provide them with enough specs to make them able to execute the same maneuver every time they're in an engagement with a Star Destroyer. The initial trick will only work so many times, but the rebels are sure to come up with plenty of ways to get a strike team inside the ship on their own: they're clever and resourceful, aren't they?

Commander Sato agrees to his plan almost straight away, which he finds almost suspicious because this man has no reason to trust him. He will fully attempt to assume control of one of the Destroyers and use it to obliterate the other because he has no interest whatsoever to return to the Empire, but the Commander cannot know that: for all he knows he could be making contact with his allies and escape the moment he's safely onboard, having pulled the longest con just for it to come to this.

He questions this and the Commander says, without hesitation, that at this point he has no other choice, and he trusts the judgment of Captain Syndulla. Besides, Ahsoka Tano – the Togruta woman standing at the background like a ghost in a photograph nods tersely at him – will be joining him and she is perfectly capable of carrying out the mission once inside the ship, whether that is to simply destroy it or assume control of it, in case Kallus for whatever reason is not in the lead anymore.

What the Twi'lek pilot had told the Commander he never finds out, but they put his plan into axtion either way. They launch an escape pod, which draws the Empire's attention and one of the ships will attempt to tractor beam it in immediately. Once inside they will overpower the squad likely send to fetch whoever was important enough to be jettisoned like that out of the command ship. Once done, the strike team will split, with few people heading towards the reactor core as a bait to make the crew assume that they will try to destroy the ship, which will direct most infantry onboard towards the reactor, while Kallus and the rest will make their way to the bridge. The Empire _will not_ be expecting that. If there are Inquisitors onboard, Tano will draw their attention, and head for the reactor core, also for the purpose to blow it all to hell in case Kallus fails at his own mission, although he's certain he will pull it off.

The bridge will not be heavily guarded and technicians do not carry blasters: the only armed personnel on the bridge are the Admiral, his personal guards and any Lieutenant, if present. They might run into lone Stormtroopers on the way, but they'll try to stay hidden rather than engage to make the attack a surprise. When on the bridge, to make the threat real, they will attach explosives on the bridge bulkhead upon entering and then seal it off. They will make sure no one gets a message off to the other Destroyer, they will kill the Admiral, at which point the pilots, operators and technicians will lose any will to fight, and rebels will man the stations to start firing the main battery at the other Destroyer, which should quickly succumb to the surprise attack combined with simultaneous attack from the rebel fleet.

And then he will set the reactor core to overload, which is the only part of the plan he does not share with the people sitting in the escape pod with him. Tano is eyeing him with cool, open suspicion, blue eyes just as cold as he's used to seeing on every face by now, and he's pretty sure she knows what he's not saying, but since she does not bring it up, she apparently approves of the plan, and he does not question. Maybe she'll tell Commander Sato later, he will find out.

Just outside the bridge he's briefly terrified that he will find Admiral Konstantine there, because he's not certain if he's ready to face that particular ghost of his past right now and he's not sure if he'd be able to pull the trigger in that case: any other faceless Admiral and he'll put the blaster bolt between the eyes himself.

It's someone he vaguely knows by name and he's dead. The rebels cull the panic on the bridge, take down those who for whatever reason attempt to resist, and Kallus first contacts the rebel fleet to hit the other Destroyer with everything they've got, the ship he's got under him packs enough punch to obliterate its shields within seconds: Star Destroyers aren't really built to withstand the firepower of their own batteries. It's executed beautifully and he feels only vague sense of ennui watching the other Star Destroyer's sharp beak tilt down before a series of explosions tear it up starting from the middle of the hull where the reactor core succumbs to the malfunctions onboard first. The remaining TIEs are now attacking their ship and although they're hardly making a scratch despite being able to fly inside the shields it serves well enough as a convenient lie about the TIEs knowing to hit the reactor to bring the obviously hijacked ship down, and his subtle ministrations to overload the reactor manually go unnoticed. From there they have approximately fifteen minutes to get whatever ship they can and fly far enough to survive the eventual explosion.

And yes, of course, every Stormtrooper onboard is now heading for the bridge, so they'll have to take a, um, a _shortcut_. Which simply means jumping down a trash chute, which will take them near the hangar at the underbelly of the ship.

Tano calls him to ask further instructions to help with the situation of her smaller strike team that has been pursued by troopers for the entire duration of their mission, and he tells her to head back to the hangar.

They're not all prepared for the Stormtroopers right outside the sealed bridge bulkhead, waiting for a droid to override the protocols, and he loses two men and a blaster bolt scratches his shoulder deep enough to tear the fabric and draw blood before the squad is dead. They take a trash chute, crawl out near a familiar corridor, and head for the hangar, where Tano is already engaged in a battle with a tremendous amount of Stormtroopers and admirably holding her own, white lightsabers flashing as she dances across the hangar.

They take the Admiral's _Lambda_ -class command shuttle: faster, bigger and most importantly way more stylish than the escape pod they arrived in and it's also probably the most useful for the rebel cell to use in future missions that require infiltration. They break away from the ship. TIEs give them wide berth since they're probably not sure if the shuttle's friendly and he decides not to draw any attention to them and instructs against firing towards any of the TIEs until they're clear of the Star Destroyer. He contacts the rebel fleet to not shoot at the command shuttle; that's it's them: grazing the shields is fine for keeping up the ruse, but he would appreciate it that they were not shot into oblivion.

The familiar fleeting feeling of ennui is back when the other Star Destroyer eventually succumbs to the reactor overload and tilts down, engines dead, before its utter destruction. The remaining TIEs flee, their shuttle flies into the hangar of the rebel command ship and his team exits with loud whoops and cheers, sharing an enormous amount of 'well done!' backpats. Kallus remains in the cockpit for a while longer, staring at the now-debris-filled space beyond the hangar exit, his injured shoulder quite painful, and he feels the cold return as adrenaline slowly drains from his veins. His leg hurts too, now probably for real because of the exertion from crawling around in trash compactors and sneaking around a painfully familiar Star Destroyer (thank heavens it wasn't Admiral Konstantine, _thank heavens)_ and not just because his head cannot tell phantom pain apart from real one anymore.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he _jumps_ , turning around in a hurry to see Tano stand behind him, wearing a somewhat quizzical look with a hint of a smile behind the otherwise stone-faced – he realizes now – façade. She is no Jedi, but not like the Inquisitorius either. With that he knows she won't tell Commander Sato that he had meant to blow the ship from the very beginning, and she will not stand between him and what looks like his freedom. She lets her hand linger on his shoulder for a moment longer as she offers her quizzical somewhat-smile, and then she leaves, a quizzical person altogether. He wonders what _is_ she exactly.

Commander Sato showers him with the kind of restrained gratitude one could expect and suggests he'll rest before they discuss the details of his release, and he's fine with that: he's in no hurry and frankly he's exhausted. He makes a small detour to the medbay again to get his shoulder _and_ leg looked at (right now it's strongly looking like the leg will need to be replaced with a cybernetic prosthetic, and he's slowly coming to terms with the idea, cross though it makes him), and then he is shown back to his cabin, this time without armed soldiers, and he finds out his door isn't locked afterwards and there are no guards either this time. He entertains no ideas whatsoever about taking advantage of that: he crashes into bed, finds it cold despite knowing very well that the cabin is warm, and can only dredge up the memory of warmth, of another pressed against his side, hand in his, a kiss on forehead, cheek, corner of mouth, lips, and he knows it shouldn't affect him as much as it does because it's all gone now, but his heart, still, is a ball of throbbing, all-numbing cold ache made of what-ifs that should have been.


	15. Fifteen

It's been a standard galactic month, or thereabouts, he doesn't exactly know: his new home has days that last two and nights that last twice that, and he quickly loses his track of time. Life on starships was so much easier, everything followed the galactic standard and was _orderly_ , out here in the Outer Rim boondocks a lot of things lose their meaning and the world makes less sense, simpler though some things are.

He doubles as a farmhand and as eyes for the rebel cell located in the system (a trade he had to make with Sato to receive first-hand information on Imperial movement in and near the system, and he thinks it's not so bad) and leads a quite charmed life, all bowl of cherries, and he can't walk properly without aid. The world is cold and bare without much things growing freely out in the wild and with occasional blizzard rolling over the mountain range further away and covering his quaint new home settlement in pristine snow. Almost poetic, all things considered, he keeps thinking idly sometimes.

It could be worse, he supposes. He has already negotiated better trade deals for the local cantina so that at least the beer wouldn't be absolutely unbearable to drink (he might have negotiated better deals for food items as well, but he's still somewhat hesitant about taking credit for doing selfless, _good_ things for the people around him: for some reason doing all that makes him embarrassed, and the sheer thought of being thanked or even lauded for doing it makes him experience a strong surge of self-hatred and unworthiness. It's somehow different, doing things for these people, than it was doing them for Imperial citizens). The Empire has no interest in such bare-bones world that is not rich in natural resources, has no cultural background whatsoever or doesn't seem to be directly involved in any suspicious pirate or rebel activity. There isn't any "uncivilized" original alien life either that would require culling to prevent possible future insurgencies. The world was entirely uninhabited by sentient life until only a couple of galactic years ago, and the original inhabitants were these rabbit-like creatures that were nearly hunted to extinction when the first settlers arrived, which likely sent the biosphere spiraling out of control and now nothing grows and their crops get gnawed on by supremely annoying underground pests. At least the Empire did terraforming _right_ before even attempting to colonize, but of course no one out here knows how things work. The rebel cell has done their best at trying to conserve the original alien life on the planet, and the locals still like to tell about that time they tried to introduce another apex predator species to the planet to prey on the crop-gnawers but turned out they would rather prey on people instead and despite the casualties the thrill of the hunt had been great.

The settlement is small but slowly growing, the greenhouses flourishing and farms making it despite the harsh conditions. Traders stop by the spaceport once or twice a (standard galactic) week and local market runs every day. He's rented a small room for himself with the credits he got from Sato's rebel cell as a parting gift to help him get back on his feet and build a new life, and although the small room still feels nothing like home to him (it feels less like a home than that small cabin on _Ghost_ did), he still appreciates what Commander Sato did for him. Sort of. Wasn't this exactly what he had planned? To get away from everything, start afresh on some Outer Rim world?

Turns out it's not very satisfactory and he misses action, although he takes part in hunts, and he's been in at least two shootouts with pirates who're attempting to rob the place, assuming the locals defenseless (the haste they make when the large anti-aircraft artillery battery is revealed on top of one of the buildings is always rather hilarious, watching a light freighter attempting to pull an instant literal one-hundred-and-eighty and jump into hyperspace within atmosphere). Back to the Empire he would not go, he still does not exactly want to join the rebels either despite helping the local cell by keeping an eye on everything that's going on, but it's just that, and at least he can freely choose what information to divulge, and what he'll keep to himself. He considers lie by omission to be necessary to save lives sometimes.

Commander Sato had offered him a position in his rebel cell: he would have been made lieutenant or something, immediately one of the highest-ranking people in the fleet, but he had declined, having already decided that he was just as likely to join the rebels in some official capacity as he was to return to the Empire.

And Empire probably wants him dead for the destruction of two Star Destroyers and being a rebel co-conspirator and he's pretty sure every bounty hunter in the galaxy already knows his face because the ISB likely took the entire thing as a personal affront. Their highly-ranked agent went rogue and turned coat: he's probably the only one who's ever done that, which he's secretly proud of. He just wishes it didn't come with a likely high dead-or-alive bounty. But at least he's hidden very deep in the Outer Rim, on a world not many are aware of, and any bounty hunter arriving would stick out like a sore thumb, and by now he knows how to hide if there ever was the need to do so: the good thing about the crop-gnawers is that under the surface the entire planet is carved full of tunnels and caves and he knows plenty of entrances, although the crop-gnawers make his skin crawl.

Yes, a charmed life, a bowl full of cherries.

He's glad the planet is naturally cold: he feels less crazy about being cold all the time because he cannot accurately tell if it's the climate or just all in his head, no matter the amount of layers he wears, no matter how high up he turns the heating or lights up the fireplace he has in his room. He misses the meteorite sometimes, his thoughts wander and reach out towards the _Ghost_ more often than he's comfortable with, and he thinks about Zeb, what he's doing, how many Stormtrooper skulls he's bashed in; what the _Ghost_ is up to this time. His blaster feels inadequate to the bo-rifle he wielded for so many years and he misses that, too, and occasionally thinks about trying to send the _Ghost_ a message through the rebel cell he associates with: he knows many of the cells don't know about each other for security reasons, but they know of Sato's cell and Sato knows about _Ghost_ , so the message would likely make it to its recipient. _I'd like my bo-rifle back_ , the message would say, _deliver it to Commander Sato, he knows what to do with it._

He never sends out any messages, thinks it's probably better this way. He knows there's the chance that he'd get to see Zeb, occasionally, but Zeb would not leave the _Ghost_ , he would not join the _Ghost_ , and it would all remain 'a damned bitch of an unsatisfactory situation' as Zeb had so eloquently put it once. He would just miss Zeb worse when he were gone: it is _easier_ to deal with when he thinks Zeb has moved on, and he will too, at some point, if the cold ever goes away or he can draw those memories of warmth from somewhere else.

Sometimes he just wants to see Zeb to say that belated _"thank you"_ for all the things Zeb did for him; for being the warmth in dark places where there was only cold. Without Zeb he would have never spoken up back on Commander Sato's fleet and he would have sat in that cabin, captive-but-not-quite, and gotten obliterated with the rest of the ship when the deflector shields were finally depleted and the Star Destroyers would have concentrated their ion cannons on them. It feels horrible to think back to, definitely chills down his spine. How far gone he had been.

He still is, but now he is also moderately… well, not exactly _happy_ , but _content_ : still cold, still feeling useless and like there is no point to anything, but some part of him remains cautiously optimistic that maybe things will turn out fine now. He doesn't want to _die_ anymore, which was both a relief and an absolutely horrifying thing to realize. Well, it wasn't really as much about wanting to die as it had been about not _minding at all_ if he did, and he is quite glad to realize that he would now mind it, maybe a little, if he were to die.

So _fine_ , it's not entirely charmed, not entirely a bowl of cherries, but it's _good enough_ and maybe, with time, he will come to accept it fully, when the last of the suspicious cold is gone from other settlers' eyes (he's a new arrival so he's still considered suspicious despite him doing his best to keep as low a profile as possible, work on the farm, help with whatever he can whenever he can, and, yes: listen to carelessly babbling patrons in the cantina, occasionally sneak around cursing his crap leg under his breath and go out to the wastes to meet with the rebel cell in secret) and maybe seasons turn and it will become warmer. It feels like a tiny relief. The guilt he will have to learn to live with and he thinks he's fine with it. His leg feels definitely cold all the time, this dull ache that won't go away no matter what. It wakes him up sometimes in the middle of the night and the settlement's only doctor, a Rodian woman, is keeping an eye on it to see if it actually gets bad enough to warrant that damned cybernetic prosthetic he's been trying to avoid. At this point it could go both ways, she says: he just _really_ needs to stop exerting it so much.

Hard not to when he works on a farm and has to move quite a lot (and not working is not an option because he has to make a living), but at least he utilizes a cane and there are no Stormtroopers to stomp on his leg or trash compactors to crawl around in, so maybe it will finally start healing.

At no point does he actually entertain the thought of someone thinking about him out there, so one day when returning from work right before the four-day nightfall he knows he will spend doing things less legitimate than the work he does on the farm, he sees the familiar silhouette of a light freighter perched on the spaceport, quite large above the rooftops of the settlement buildings and his heart feels like it literally stops beating for a second or two, the last thump painful against his ribcage before it resumes beating, faster than before. For a second he contemplates disappearing, just taking one of the tunnels underground until those particular ghosts of his past have left the planet, clearly having been led astray by whatever guided them here, and he's half-way into deciding that is the right course of action when he hears the very tell-tale crackle-hum of a lightsaber activating behind him.

"Don't move," says Ezra Bridger, 'Jabba the Hutt', the annoying little kid behind him, and he raises slowly his hand that isn't holding the cane, and turns around to face the kid. The kid glares up at him, scowling and full of that youthful anger he's become used to, lightsaber held by both hands. Thankfully there aren't many people around and he saw the few locals nearby scatter immediately when the lightsaber appeared. _Thanks, kid._ It's not like this isn't suspicious at all, this will surely help him gain trust with rest of the more careful locals.

"Well," he says, in the kind of tone he would usually end conversations with.

"Just for your information," the kid says, "we've been to all kinds of unbelievably horrible places because of you, and we came all this way to this middle of nowhere because of you, so you better not do anything you're actually now planning to."

He quirks an eyebrow. He's pretty certain the kid _cannot_ be _that_ good at the whole Force thing just yet – if this was Jarrus, he would actually take him at his word – so he just has to be very good at guessing and bluffing. Which, come to think of it, _he is._

The kid shakes his lightsaber slightly at him. "And if you hurt my friend you'll get to meet the business end of… this thing," he continues in the same tone that could be threatening if he was actually a couple of years older and four inches taller. However, he knows Ezra Bridger well enough to know that the threat is very real and disregarding him just by his appearance or age is something he's learned a long ago not to do despite his constant desire to do so. Looks can be so deceiving: this entire band of irritating rebels has proven _that_ time and time again.

He sighs and lowers his arm, pretty certain the kid isn't planning on piercing him with the lightsaber. "So will I follow you to your ship then?"

"Nah you ain't getting aboard, just go back to your place," the kid says and withdraws the lightsaber, stands up straight from his battle stance. "But I'm keeping an eye on you!"

It's not difficult to guess what's going on, so he turns back around and continues towards his rented tiny room. He hears the kid's faint footsteps behind him, bouncier, a couple of steps away.

"Your leg's still that bad, huh?" the kid asks curiously.

"Obviously," he replies.

There's silence and just outside the building his room is in the kid pipes up again, now sounding somewhat awkward. "I heard what you did for Sato and the others," he says. "And I guess thanks for that, it was… I dunno, cool of you?"

He really doesn't know what to say to that, so he just glances at the kid over his shoulder, sees him look down with his mop of hair falling partly over his eyes, looking about as awkward as he had sounded, a bit embarrassed and probably annoyed at actually having something _nice_ to say to this guy who's been an enemy for so long, and now there's apparently one reason less for that ardent, righteous hate that he harbors.

He is almost moved, definitely a little bit confused, but still at a loss for words, so he just nods, hoping it comes off as more of a 'thank-you' gesture rather than a self-flagellated 'I know', and with that he goes inside, and the kid doesn't follow. He could still go underground: the cellar has entrance to one of the tunnels, but at this point, so close to something that makes his heart beat a wild, painful rhythm against his poor ribcage, he just finds himself climbing the stairs up to his room. He finds his door broken in, and Zeb inside eyeing idly the still-pathetic contents of his bookshelf and the speed at which he turns to face the door when he hears him approach is nothing short of remarkable. Same old Zeb, and he's pretty sure that is _his_ bo-rifle strapped to his back this time. Getting it back however feels like secondary to everything else right now, as if it _ever_ was a first priority or the one thing he really wanted back from the _Ghost._

He stops in the doorway, positively frozen, and Zeb looks a bit like he's going to punch him right in the jaw, his face set in a particularly foul kind of expression with his ears low against his head and he steps across the small room with a couple of lengthy steps and Kallus closes his eyes, brazing for impact only to experience the weirdest kind of heartbreak ever when instead of punching him Zeb wraps his arms around him and hugs him tight enough to lift him off the ground.

"You're a fucking asshole and I hate you," Zeb mutters into his hair, now cut and styled like it used to be: he has that little luxury again.

He remembers earlier he wrapped those words he never said around his heart to prevent it from shattering, kept them close and his only, just one of his many secrets, but now they're flowing free, letting go of the deathgrip they have of his heart, and his heart just shatters into tiny pieces, raining shards to the bottom of his ribcage. Against his better judgment he just bursts into tears of relief that, he guesses, have been long time coming, and he's missed Zeb so much it finally manifests as this physical hurt, those shards like glass digging and cutting deeper inside him. So much _regret._

"Asshole," Zeb repeats but doesn't even attempt to loosen his hold. "I _told you_ to come back, you _knew_ I was waiting. I get to find out, what, a month later from Sato, that you saved the entire fleet with some absolutely fucking crazy Star Destroyer hijack, and he sent you off with grateful farewells. You should have _fucking told me_. Do you have—" he keeps a short break, draws in a breath, "— _any_ fucking idea how much I've missed you? Been scared out of _my mind_ they did something to you or kept you imprisoned or you… you… _whatever,_ and just trying to desperately _forget_ something I'd rather fucking remember. And here you are, _here. You. Are_."

"I'm glad to see you too," he manages between embarrassing sobs and oh for the sake of _everything_ that is holy in this galaxy he's been an absolute idiot. And an asshole, Zeb's right about that.

Zeb grumbles out something that might be a tiny bit broken chuckle, kisses the top of his head and finally lets him down, which doesn't mean that _he_ will have any of that and he still holds onto Zeb, pressed against his chest basking in the _warmth_ and the now-fresh bright-as-the-stars memory that there is someone who cares: has been, all this time, and with that his heart is unbroken, fully mended, and the hurt is gone.

He mutters an apology and Zeb sighs and says it's alright, he… can try to understand, which is hard, because the way Kallus thinks is just so fucking absurd nowadays it's difficult to keep up, and he apologizes again, and Zeb tells him to stop apologizing, _karabast_ , it's _alright_ and he'll be there if needed.

Zeb pries him off eventually, after his sobs have died out, and what he does next makes Kallus basically relive the exact moment when he stepped into the room and saw Zeb, because suddenly Zeb is holding the meteorite in his hand and it's _glowing_ again and he can feel the warmth emanating from it even though it's an arm's length away. Seeing the yellowish orange light steady and bright is like meeting an old friend again after long absence. The meteorite set him on this road, for better _and_ for worse.

" _Aqua regia_ ," Zeb says. "Turns out the thing's heavy with nitrate and chlorine and… some stuff, Hera or Kanan could explain better, and when it got in touch with water, or, well, ice, in this case, the whole thing became a mix of this stuff, which caused whatever the rest of the meteorite is made out of react and ta-dah, it's warm and glowing again! Also acidic as _shit_ before the reaction stops." He's obviously not very good at explaining the chemical properties of the meteorite, but Kallus finds he doesn't care, he holds out his hands for the meteorite and Zeb gives it to him, the warmth spreading from his hands up his arms and enveloping him like Zeb had done just a moment ago with the hug. He knows about _aqua regia_ , he can now 'refuel' the meteorite as long as its curious chemical properties last.

"How did you find out?" he asks, aware that his eyes are probably shining. He feels _alive,_ which is both exhilarating and frightening because it's something he hasn't felt in a very, _very_ long time.

Zeb scratches his neck, makes the short fur there stand out adorably. "We, uh, went back to Bahryn. I wanted to see if I could find another one or something. I didn't, but that one was dropped to the ground accidentally and it just… ate its way right through the permafrost and started glowing again." He holds out his right hand, palm up, and the finger pads that used to be so soft are now scarred by somewhat fresh chemical burns.

He extends a hand, the meteorite in the other, and runs his fingers gently over the scarring, frowning. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, no, my fault for grabbing something that just literally burned its way through ice," Zeb says, slightly embarrassed, and curls his fingers around Kallus' hand. "It'll heal."

A silence falls: he's enthralled by the meteorite, _his meteorite_ , and moved that Zeb would do something like that and then find out where he is to bring it to him, although, truth be told, he is indefinitely happier about Zeb being there and the meteorite is just like a cherry on top. Zeb watches him quietly, a weird look on his face, and then he takes down the bo-rifle from his back, and holds it out for Kallus as well. He just nods towards the bed and Zeb places it down there, careful. Now, _now_ he has everything he needs and could ever dare to ask for.

"I'm glad that cheered you up," Zeb finally says. "You still look like shit. Not as bad as before, but still, like… are you alright?"

"I'm sorry," he says, ignoring everything Zeb had said. "For not letting you know. I… thought it would be better that way. You cannot stay here because you have the _Ghost_ , and I won't join your crew, so I thought it would be ideal for both of us and… everything, if I stayed out of your life."

"Like I said," Zeb grumbles, "you're an asshole. And an idiot too. Sometimes I thought you were _dead_ , and yeah, I had accepted that possibility when we left you with Sato and the others, but _for fuck's sake_ , Kallus, do you _not_ understand how this changes everything? I don't fucking care if we won't see each other often or at all: to me it's enough to know that you're out here and you're _alright_. I'm not… I never…" He runs his hand down over his face, heaving a frustrated sigh, suddenly looking somewhat embarrassed and adorably uncertain. "I never assumed this could ever become a… _thing_ , or something. I'm in love with you but I know it's crazy and can't work out, so all I want is to know that you're doing fine. Alright? So stop fucking ignoring my questions: _are you alright?_ "

The warmth coursing through him is not coming just from the meteorite and briefly his world just spins before it settles into a whole new order where light and warmth and _hope_ exist again and the meteorite does not matter.

"I think so," he manages.

"Not good enough."

"There really is not much more I can _say_ ," he replies and then moves closer to his bed to put the meteorite down on the nightstand, next to his trusty nightlight he won't need anymore. He's pretty far from alright, but he's more aware of it now, which makes it easier to deal with. "The leg is still bad. I still feel cold and at times hopeless and like there is no point to anything, but I don't want it all to be… _gone_ anymore." He's quite not ready to tell Zeb what exactly that means and trusts that he's able to infer something from it.

The worry on Zeb's face is palpable, but he looks like he _actually knew_ and he steps nervously from side to side, suddenly not sure how to proceed. "You should have _told me about that_ ," he says, the tone less accusatory and more understanding than it has any right to be.

"I know," he just replies. "And what do you mean 'this can't work out'?"

Zeb looks puzzled and slightly embarrassed. Well, he didn't really peck Zeb to be the kind of person to deal with emotions anyway. Not _that_ kind of emotions anyway. "Didn't you just say it yourself? I can't stay here because I won't leave the _Ghost_ , and you won't join me on the _Ghost_ and I understand why, so… how in the _world_ could something… _like that_ ever work out, let's be real."

"I will always be here," he says and the words that previously held together his heart make their way easily out of his mouth, there was never any doubt after all: "I love you too, so there's that."

" _Karabast_ ," Zeb says and actually covers his eyes with his hand. "Really?"

"If it isn't obvious, yes."

"No, it actually isn't, I… thought you were just indulging me, or something, because you had nothing to lose. I'm… _me_ , and you weren't… actually the bastion of mental health during your stay on the _Ghost_ , no offense. It doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Why? Because you're a Lasat and I used to be Imperial? That there is no way that what happened on Bahryn could have set into motion something neither of us expected?" He's done a lot of thinking, at least, so it's all quite easy to parse together now that there is no guessing. "You were _good_ to me. And even before that, you looked at me like you understood when you had no reason whatsoever to even attempt to do so. You saw what I was and not what you expected me to be. No one's done that before." He feels sort of breathless after he's gotten all that off his chest and Zeb looks a bit like his mind has been blown. He's been pretty certain about how he feels about Zeb, through the cold-induced madness and all the hurt and the pain: Zeb was, after all, always better than the meteorite could ever be. Even now when the meteorite pulses on the nightstand, it's still Zeb's proximity that wraps him in that comfortable blanket of warmth.

"You turned out to be nothing like I had expected," Zeb says quietly. "Dammit." He steps closer again, drawing Kallus into another hug, just as tight and warm, and he's aware how he's always felt comfortable against Zeb, and he just buries his face against Zeb's neck and stays there.

"The rest were pretty impressed about what you did when they heard," Zeb talks, "even Ezra. He didn't say anything, which was pretty telling."

"I know, he told me."

_"What?"_

"I don't know, he was outside before I got here, threatened me with his stick of a lightsaber and then saw me here. Told me that destroying a couple of Star Destroyers was 'cool of me'," he recites what the kid had told him, sounding somewhat amused.

Zeb chuckles as well. "Goes to show. I'm pretty sure they won't mind if you come stay over at _Ghost_ sometimes and we can take you out to see some other worlds for the change. And they won't need me on every single mission so I think I can stay here for a while sometimes. If that's okay with you, of course."

He nuzzles against Zeb's shoulder and feels like he experiences happiness for the first time again. It's been such a long time since the last time he recalls feeling genuine, unadulterated happiness: the kind that makes your heart feel like it's about to burst, a pleasant heady feeling, buzz like from really good wine. There is no place in the universe he would rather be.

"So if you'd really have an old tired gruff like me then I… guess there's no hurt in trying." Zeb sounds so adorably uncertain there he can't help but chuckle quietly, happily, against his shoulder.

"There is no one else I would rather have as part of my life, if _you_ would have me."

"Are you fucking kidding?"

There's brief silence while they just hold each other. He's altogether too warm, too comfortable, too _complacent_ to move away, and now that he has this, this reality, _this_ that is _a thing_ , he will not let it slip through his fingers again just because he's an asshole and an idiot. Both of those he thinks he can do something about. And he'll hang onto it with what remains of his sanity and the parts of it he feels will eventually return.

"Happiness is weird," Zeb says gruffly and then pulls away, touches Kallus' cheek with the backs of his fingers. Soft. "You find it in the most unbelievable fucking places.

"Tell me about it," he agrees.

"This is going to be so weird, though," Zeb muses gruffly, looking briefly away. "Not in the bad kind of way but..." he glances at Kallus and sees the eyebrow quirked in amusement, and huffs, shaking his head while looking away again, "I guess it's just all about getting used to it. Never thought about a human that way."

"Nor I about a Lasat," he says, finds his dry sardonic tone of voice again somewhere, and for some reason that makes him impossibly glad. Zeb doesn't take offense and just chuckles instead, low and raw, in that exact way he's already gotten used to.

"But, like, one step at a time, right?" Zeb switches weight from one leg to another. "Listen, I…'m not in a hurry, so I could stay the night. My friends will understand."

He nods. "The world is safe. No Empire – as long as you, _for once_ , swept properly for tracking devices – and there is… anyway. I wouldn't be here if this wasn't safe for me to be at, so it is safe for you and your friends as well." He keeps a pause and frowns a little. "As long as the kid can keep his lightsaber sheathed, he already almost caused a scene."

"I'll tell Kanan to keep him in a short leash," Zeb chuckles in answer.

"Also the night lasts for four standard galactic days."

" _Karabast_ ," Zeb says and bursts out laughing. "Well, I'll tell them to get comfortable."

"You don't have to stay all that time, just spend one sleep cycle and you can be on your way to do whatever dumb heroics you're supposed to."

"Didn't you hate the shit we do?"

" _I_ am the rebel eyes on this miserable rock so my point of view might have shifted a little."

Zeb's eyes are shining. "I love you."

He smiles and takes Zeb's hand (the one that doesn't have the scars: they must still be sore). Energy flows freely and there is so much warmth, overwhelming the equilibrium and he knows there will be balance, but it will not be that of cold. He will be cold again but right now he's warm, bright golden heat like a flame, and at least, at long last, he feels truly at peace with the universe; with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this monster of a novella. <3 
> 
> (Oh, there might be an epilogue. Might.)


End file.
